


Hero of Light

by ScriptrixDraconum



Series: Hero [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Canon, Angst, Apocalypse, Constructed Language, Dawnbreaker, Dawnguard, Dawnguard DLC, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dragonborn DLC, Drama, Fantasy, Mages, Magic, Modern Girl in Skyrim, Modern Insert, Modern OC, Multi, Necromancers, Necromancy, Realistic, Vampires, conlang, modern to medieval
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 146,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6915844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>(Hero Series Book 3)</b> The sky is dark. The moons and stars, veiled. A halo of blood looms in place of the sun, and magic is weak. Vampires now threaten all of Skyrim, possibly the world, and no one knows where to begin. But through the unending night, Meridia compels me. Where I go, so does she. With the help of friends and an unlikely ally, I will find Torug and return the Light of Aetherius to the land I now call home.</p><p><b>Extended Description:</b> Though still healing from loss and injury, Deborah’s sense of purpose reawakens when disaster strikes. The Bloodcursed Sun has dimmed Aetherius’s influence on Mundus, endangering all mortal life on Nirn. Deborah and allies must find a way to reverse the curse before vampires decimate Skyrim’s populous more than they already have. </p><p><b>TL;DR:</b> The following story is what happens when a modern-day non-combat-ready woman gets ripped into another reality where coffee and toilet paper do not exist but dragons and vampires do.</p><p><b>Disclaimer:</b> All Skyrim in-game characters, themes, questline plots etc. are property of Bethesda Softworks. No infringement intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, lovely readers! Here begins Book 3 of the Hero Series, the sequel to "Hero by Choice", which is the sequel to “Hero by Mistake”. We're getting right back into it. If you're opening this chapter and wondering what this story is about, I strongly recommend reading the first two books first. However, while certain things will make more sense with more background, every part of this series can stand alone, more or less. 
> 
> Additionally, knowledge of Elder Scrolls lore or games is not necessary to enjoy this series.
> 
> The ending chapters of “Hero by Choice” might have left you in a less than happy state, and for that I apologize. Such is life in Skyrim. Don’t worry, things will get happier… by the end of Book 3.
> 
> I'd love to hear from my readers. Post a comment to let me know what you thought of the first two books, and how the events affected you. As always, I appreciate constructive criticism!
> 
> I will probably be posting a new chapter every week, but there will be breaks, probably, between story arcs. Keep tabs on updates via following this story or following me on tumblr: [scrptrx](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com).
> 
> Please note that the tags, categories, and content warnings for this work will be updated as the story progresses. This includes cameos from non-original characters. :)
> 
>   
>  art by [needlesslycryptic](http://needlesslycryptic.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good playlist for the first 13 chapters of this story is the following:  
> 1\. Control - Halsey  
> 2\. Flicker (Kanye West Rework) - Lorde  
> 3\. Raise the Dead - Rachel Rabin  
> 4\. Devil Devil - Milck  
> 5\. Keep the Streets Empty for Me - Fever Ray

 

 

 

 _“He who fights with monsters might take care_  
_lest he thereby become a monster._  
_And if you gaze for long into an abyss,_  
_the abyss gazes also into you.”_  
**_Beyond Good and Evil (Aphorism 146)_**  
Friedrich Nietzsche

 

**— HERO OF LIGHT —**

**— 1 —**

**_SANCTUARY_ **

****

****

**Chapter 1**

 

_6 years ago…_

The leaves of a nearby maple floated to the ground as Sam and I sat before my father’s grave. An oversized sweater and my dog’s body heat guarded me against the crisp autumn breeze.

For six years I’d been coming here on or around my father’s birthday, and that was four months ago. This visit was for me. I needed the comfort of my father’s presence, even if it was just a name engraved on a slab of stone.

I hadn’t worn my wedding ring for weeks, yet my finger still felt naked. I sold the store-bought band, long before the divorce was finalized, to help pay for my move to Colorado.

New marital status. New job. New city. My mother and sister had been a huge help, but I needed my father. I needed his emotional support as my life was turned on its head. I had to settle for a gravestone.

“It’s official,” I told the gravestone, “I signed the papers. Greg and— _her_ —have been planning the wedding.”

Sam panted happily and then slurped my chin until I scratched the top of his head. He knew I was upset, and was doing his best to cheer me up. Eventually he settled again, lying on my feet.

“I’m moving to Boulder. UC hired me. Big change from UMass.” I smiled, recalling the fantastic views from my hotel window during my visit to the western city. “Well, more mountains, anyway. Shame I don’t ski, right?” Sam turned his head back to me, assuming I was speaking to him. I rubbed his back.

“I think it’ll be good for me. New town, n’ all that. The apartment complex even has a big lawn for the fur baby.”

Sam added a hushed comment. A big leaf landed on the grass by his face and he promptly snatched it into his maw.

A family far to my left laid a bouquet of flowers by a gravestone and stood together around it. I watched them until Sam began to squirm again.

“I guess I should go,” I muttered, turning back to my father’s gravestone. “See you next year.”

. . . . . .

_6 months ago…_

Forty-five.

Yrsarald would have been forty-five years old today.

Standing before a cracked and degraded mirror, I stared at the amulet of Mara that hung from my neck. Trailing towards the pendant was the longest of the scars left by Yrsarald’s werebear claws. The jagged line began on my chin and skipped down to my neck. My trachea was better, now. Rest and healing spells saved my voice.

Yrsarald’s sapphire ring, which I could no longer wear as my fingers had become inexplicably swollen, nestled against the pendant. Yrsarald’s gold band still fit my thumb. I fondled the enchanted metal with my chubby fingers.

I might have made him a cake today. He liked the first one I had made for him.

A wave of nausea hit, and I was immediately turned off the idea of cake.

“Fine, a _pizza_ , then,” I muttered to Yrsarald’s imagined ghost. The nausea passed, and I thought about all the pizzas I would never again have, nor could make here in Skyrim. Pepperoni was top on the list. A supreme, loaded pizza: peppers, sausage, onion. Or meat-lovers.

 _Ohh, meat lovers._ Pepperoni, meatballs, sausage, bacon.

I groaned. “ _Bacon_.”

Yrsarald would have loved bacon. I would have made him breakfast in bed, today: scrambled eggs, home fries, and bacon writing out ‘45’.

If only the man had instead stumbled through a portal and ended up stranded on Earth, he might have been alive today, enjoying bacon and a morning blowjob. Perhaps I would have ‘excavated’ him in that cave. Perhaps he would have popped up through some portal in the middle of my lecture hall. The whole thing would have played out like that “Thor” movie, minus the god-powers and proficiency in English.

The enchantment of the amulet shimmered across the metal, momentarily distracting me from my fantasies.

I envisioned Yrsarald in jeans and various types of shirts. T-shirts, flannel plaids, button-downs, Hawaiian florals, sweaters, hoodies, polos, tank tops.

Sweaters and polos. He was definitely a sweaters and polos kind of guy. Turtlenecks, too. And slacks more than jeans. Maybe casual khakis. Cargo pants.

Yrsarald, sweater and slacks, mug of coffee and plate of crispy bacon.

Perfect.

I reached out to the mirror and caressed the reflected curve of the round pendant. My breath caught just as tears welled in my eyes, but I managed the words that needed to be said: “Happy birthday.”

. . . . . .

_6 seconds ago…_

Marcurio and Bird had a good grip on me. I fought them, but I was weak. Battling the third onslaught of vampires had drained the last of my magical reserves, and without a direct connection to the sun and stars, that energy would not regenerate any time soon. The sky had been dark for over a week, and magical potions could only do so much.

I squirmed in protest, but Marcurio was a very strong man.

“Let me go!” I screamed. “They’re mine! I can—” they yanked me further down the ramp “—I can take them, damn it!”

“Sweet Mara. Marc!” Bird stopped walking and turned my face to Marcurio. “Her eyes. They’re doing it again.”

Marcurio turned to me, and through blanched vision I saw his frown and furrowed brow. “Come on,” he said. “We have to keep moving.” After other survivors pushed past us, bumping into him, he shifted his gaze behind me. “Are you alright?”

“We’re fine,” a bright voice called. Morgana, the wetnurse. She must have had the children. My children.

Riften’s citizens were ushered down a ramp and into a dark room lit by only two torches. Marcurio shoved me onto a shoddy wooden bench where he and Morgana sat at my sides. Bird stood in front of us. Marcurio linked one of his arms with mine. I gave Bird the stare of doom.

The skinny man laughed. “Glare at me all you want, Deb. I know you’re just as scared as I am. You know how I know?” He crouched before me as I narrowed my eyes at him. “Because you didn’t use one single Shout to get away from Marc’s iron grip.” Bird tapped my nose and walked away.

Exertion and defeat caused rage to build and hold within me. The sensory overload of a disorienting, noisy throng did not help, and I felt myself slipping into a fury-fueled panic attack.

It took the grasp of an infant at my side to pull my consciousness out of the flames. I forced my breathing to slow. Bird was right, of course. I was terrified. But the drive I felt to remain outside, to fight the rest of the vampires and any more that might come, stubbornly overpowered common sense. Thankfully, I had retained enough wits to not harm my family just to get what I thought I wanted. The hatred I temporarily held for Marcurio and Bird faded, and with it, the rest of my energy.

“ _Ra, ra_ ,” Marcurio lulled as he released my arm. He patted my back with one hand and grasped my chin with the other, turning my face toward his. He looked again at my eyes before taking his hands off of me. “Much better. I prefer your eyes when they’re a boring stone-cold blue.”

“Blue.” I looked at my friend. “What were they?”

“White. Like at the College, with the Lightning Cloak incident. Like during the first attack, and the second. Meridia, she….” Marcurio frowned.

“She what?”

His hands enveloped mine. “We—that is, my mother and I—we think she is taking over your body when vampires are around. She’s casting a Lightning Cloak—no, a Lightning Armor spell upon your body, and controlling you… at least a little bit.”

Controlling me. Yes. That felt right. I didn't answer my friend, but instead turned to look down at the pink, screaming babies beside me.

An odd mix of relief and distress set in. My family survived, but looking around the room, I didn’t see Marcurio’s mother, Alessandra. I didn’t see our neighbors, an elderly couple. I didn’t see the Jarl, Laila Law-Giver, but I did see her steward, Anuriel. Of a city of thousands, only fifty-some of us made it to the secret underground chamber called the Ratways, a place I only learned existed as I was running towards it. Naively, I hoped that the rest of Riften’s populous found other means of hiding from the vampires.

It was Anuriel and her people who had gathered as many as they could and sent us underground. The place we had been herded to was cold, damp, and smelled like a sewer. A woman to our right sobbed incessantly. A man before us fumbled with his belt, removing a small, empty scabbard that had been fastened to it. 

I looked to my right side, at Dawnbreaker. I wrapped my fingers around the handle and watched as the little gem, mounted within the sword’s guard, glowed bright white. The vision relaxed me.

Somewhere down a dark corridor appeared a light. Set on alert, I stood and walked toward the corridor entrance. The brightness slowly increased until a man behind a torch appeared. He was hulking, dirty, and a bit disheveled. Behind him strode a gaunt redhead who looked like he was once a handsome man. The torch-bearer approached me. An angry scar, raking down the left side of his face and permanently erasing a portion of that eyebrow, matched his demeanor. Flames hid the rest of his face.

Feeling vulnerable in the near-dark of the chamber’s entrance, I cast a large sphere of golden light above my head. I had enough energy for a Candlelight spell, at least. The approaching men stopped short, stunned. The gaunt one shrunk back. The hulking one, however, cemented his surprised eyes on me and advanced, wary. Finally, the man lowered the torch, and I realized why he retained such a shocked expression after spotting me.

His long light-brown hair, held back by braids, shone golden in the warm magical light. His hazel eyes sparkled with recognition. His untrimmed goatee spread wide in a grin, and then his light chuckle filled the void. His teeth contrasted with his filthy body. Closer the man stepped, bringing with him a waft of strong body odor. My grip on Dawnbreaker tightened, and I silently cast a weak Stoneflesh spell upon myself. Taken aback again by the display of magic, the hulking man baulked, but soon was laughing joyfully.

Joyfully!

His approach quickened and the man stood before me, arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “Gods above, woman!” he said, beaming with delight. “I was wondering if I was ever gonna—”

My knuckles landed on the man’s nose with a crack. A bit of blood spurt forth, decorating my hand and wrist. The punch hurt me, too, and I absentmindedly healed the pending contusion. The man cried out in well-deserved pain, expletives flowing as freely as the blood. The skulking gaunt man was left whimpering, perhaps concerned for his companion, or perhaps unnecessarily worrying he would receive the same welcome.

“What the fuck, Deb?” Bird shouted as he stepped in front of me, no doubt shocked that I would sucker-punch an apparent stranger. “What—who is that?”

I walked up to the hulking man. He was pinching his nose and leaning backwards, cursing me between breaths. The man wiped his nose of remaining blood, smearing it across his face in a broad line. How appropriate.

“Fuck.” He groaned as he gingerly prodded the bridge of his nose. “Nice to see you too, ‘Not Dibella’.”

I curbed my anger. My clenched fists hung at my sides. Glaring at him, I greeted the sadistic barbarian by his name. “Thrynn.”

He set his broken nose before I raised my hand to heal him. The spell was weak, its golden light faint, but working nonetheless. As much as I despised the man, I still felt a modicum of remorse about my impromptu revenge. Gasps and mutters from around the dark room confirmed our audience.

There was so much to say, things that I needed Thrynn to know. I needed to see the repentance in his eyes, needed the sorrowful words to cross his lips. I was angry, still so very angry at my abandonment, at my miscarriage, at all the crap I had gone through because of his barbarian friends. Yet, despite the wrath that had flared upon setting eyes on him, at him laughing as if greeting an old friend, I felt relief. Not just the relief that came from punching him, but from knowing he was alive, from seeing him relatively safe and healthy. Thrynn was, after all, the first thing closest to a friend I had made in this world. My bastard savior.

But I couldn’t speak with him, not now, not here. Riften had just been attacked for a third time by vampires, a vicious wave proving more than we could handle, and the city had retreated. Everyone including myself was scared, and I did not need to add to the drama any more than I already had.

Thrynn’s eyes met mine, and he smiled. I took that as a sign he was healed, and I walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ra, ra_ \- woah/calm, "there, there"


	2. Chapter 2

"Sooo, that was Thrynn." Marcurio nodded and made an odd, decisive face. "I can see how one would be attracted to that."

" _Can_ you?" Bird prodded, but erased his accusatory glance with a smirk.

I growled my annoyance. "I was not attracted. Not—not truly. It was just… need."

"Mhmm." Marcurio grinned. "Well, I support the punch. Maybe not at the moment you did it, but…."

More torches were placed around the hall. Bird used the advantage of his height to scan the crowd for Marcurio's mother.

I flexed the fingers of my right hand, which I now believed would be forever achy from having been smashed on Earth by a Viking's foot. Using that hand to punch someone – a move I was not well trained in to begin with – had been a bad idea, however emotionally cleansing it was. After I healed Thrynn, he kept his distance from me, instead speaking with Anuriel. Eventually, I lost them both in the crowd.

I turned to watch Virald squirm in Morgana's arms. My son was nearly three weeks old and already he was living through a nightmare after what must have been a traumatic gestation. Flavia, at seventeen months, had the small chance of remembering the red sky, the screams, the blood, and the retreat. Had she witnessed me kill the vampires during the first attack, or had her eyes been compassionately covered?

As I watched Virald turn pink with infantile rage, my heart sank. The loathing I had felt towards him faded since his birth, and now all I felt was sorrow, and dread.

Approaching Morgana, I opened my arms. "I'll hold him for a while."

The wetnurse gladly handed the child to me and swept a hand over her mussed bright orange hair. "Thank you. I'll, eh, I'll be right back." The woman walked off into another part of the large hall.

Virald continued to wail for a good while, but eventually settled after I began to wiggle my weakly sparkling fingers in front of his face.

. . . . . .

Marcurio's heartbeat was a welcome change to the constant din of the refugee-filled hall. Cuddling was nothing new for us. For whatever reason, his closeness always calmed me. I joked that he actually used a silent, invisible calming spell, but the man never admitted to this.

Flavia was prostrate on Marcurio's abdomen, her face resting near mine. She was drowsy after her evening meal, but refused to sleep. Virald was still being nursed by Morgana, who quietly chatted with a friend of hers about mundane, happy things. Bird was off once again to look for Marcurio's mother, who we assumed dead or missing.

Flavia was babbling, mixing the few words she knew well with indecipherable gibberish. Or, at least to me it was gibberish. To a native Norren speaker, more words could be worked out. At nearly a year and a half, she was growing up fast, running a bit and telling Morgana or others when she needed food. She was still nursing, but Morgana suggested we wean her, soon, to make sure Virald did not go hungry.

" _Kis-kis_." The small sound came from Flavia.

Marcurio stirred. "What's that, Flavia? _Kis-kis_?"

"Yeah," she murmured.

"Does she need a fresh rag?" I asked, sitting up so Marcurio could inspect the child.

" _Derra kis_ ," she elaborated.

Morgana chuckled. "She's asking if Deborah can take 'er to the latrine."

"Latrine?" I asked. "Isn't she a bit young for—"

"It's new, yeah," the wetnurse confirmed, "but she's seen me use it and 'as wanted to try it 'erself."

"Same with me and Bird," Marcurio confirmed. "She still needs rags, but she seems excited to try."

I stood and habitually brushed the dust off of my irreparably stained linen clothes. "Alright, my golden girl. Let's go _kis-kis._ " I took the child from Marcurio, and the man handed me a small satchel.

"Just in case," he whispered with a wink.

With the girl resting on my chest and shoulder, I searched in earnest for the latrines, which I was certain existed in this underground city. But knowing the impatience of a young bladder, I did not hesitate to cast Clear-Seeing, hoping it would lead me to a toilet of some kind. The blue fog, having found a goal, whooshed before me. The spell was faint and only stretched several steps ahead of me each time it was cast, but my magic still worked.

Unsurprisingly, Flavia wet herself on the way, and had to be changed. She was vocally upset at her failure, but I unmelodiously crooned away her worries as I washed and re-clothed her before using the latrine, myself. I was ever-grateful for Marcurio's satchel, which contained an abundance of clean rags fit for many uses.

Flavia was babbling happily as we made our way back to her parents. Nearly drowning out her burbles were the sounds of people calling out for their loved ones, others fighting or crying, several dogs barking, and Meridia's constant, underlying hum inside my head.

_Kill the vampires. Vampires. Kill them all. Now. The vampires. Kill them. Find them. Kill._

Amidst all the other noises, I barely made out the sound of quiet, desperate whimpers echoing from a dark alcove. The mewls were broken up by the occasional word or two. Curious, I cast a small globe of Magelight into the shadows, and was saddened by what I saw.

A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, looked like Tom Hanks in "Castaway" after being on that island for several years: scruffy, skinny, dirty, and probably crazy. His curly, matted brown hair spilled over his shoulders, and an unkempt beard crept across his lower face and down his neck. He noticed me, and his big, brown and blood-shot eyes wordlessly pleaded for something. He likely wanted food or water, but possibly was suffering withdrawal from alcohol, or some drug I didn't know existed here. I hadn't anything on me to give him, but we were surrounded by people. Someone would help him. Probably.

Flavia and the man shared a glance, and when I turned away, the man cried out, loudly, before stumbling through words.

"W-w… wait!" he pleaded, using the English word. "P-please!" He stumbled to his feet. "Deb-orah? Deborah _Vend-Hjalm_?"

I stared at the seemingly homeless man, trying to figure out who he was, how he knew my name, why he was talking about Windhelm, and why he spoke English. Flavia pointed at him, and said something that sounded like the English word "hippopotamus".

The man stared right back at me, studying my face in earnest.

"Oh my God, it _is_ you!" The dirty, skinny man, after having spoken English with a very British accent, thrust himself against me and Flavia in the most desperate hug I had ever witnessed. He wept openly and loudly, and mumbled various English phrases of gratitude.

The British men! Only now did I realize I never learned those four men's names. This one had stood out from the others, being somewhat darker in complexion and shorter. He had made a joke about the cold weather. Had he not spoken now, I would have never recognized him with the added months of misery on his face.

I gently peeled him off of me and got a better look at him. "It's me," I responded in English, quietly, not wanting others to hear our otherworldly conversation. "Where are your friends?"

The man, looking terribly weak, grasped my upper arms and squeezed. "Dead. They're dead. They killed 'em and tried to take me. Tried…." Sobbing, he offered himself my shoulder, again hugging me. "Sumthin' happened. Me hands burned an' I—" he sniffled "—I-I'm… so hungry."

I pushed back again with my free arm, not terribly thrilled that the young man kept hugging me. I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him as well as hold him at a distance. "Come with me," I offered. "We'll sit with my family. We can speak English around them. It's okay; they know."

The starved and overwhelmed pup sniffled and nodded. "Yeah, okay."

I put on my best warm, motherly smile. "What's your name?"

The young man smiled back, revealing stained and plaque-ridden teeth. "Ash. Asher."

I offered him my free hand which he readily grasped, and led him back to my little camp. "Come on, Ash. We'll find you some food and water. And eventually a toothbrush and a bath."

. . . . . .

Ash sipped from my flask. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, savoring the taste of simple water.

Before finding a Khajiit band of traveling merchants, Ash and his friends, traveling from Dragon Bridge to Riften, had not eaten for days and had been drinking river water. What food the men had eaten had been stolen from others, the same with the clothes on their backs. The Khajiit merchants had taken pity on Ash and his friends, and offered them food in return for work. What few words the two groups could communicate between them included "food" and "water" and "Riften". It was fate or luck that the band Ash and his friends found was one already planning a journey to the southeastern city.

"We were near Riften," Ash recounted. "We were camped outside of it, wi' the…." Ash gestured toward a Khajiit woman sitting not far from us. "Cat people. Like that. Cat." The young man eyed our Khajiit neighbor warily. He shook his head, and looked to his hands. "There're so many things, here, that I…."

"I know, Ash. It can be overwhelming. Everything we knew as only stories, it all exists here. You should learn about it all, now, so it doesn't freak you out later."

"Like vampires?" he squealed rhetorically before bursting into tears. I took the flask from him and scooted to his side, offering a sympathetic rub of his upper back. Those around us in earshot pretended to ignore the scene, all except Marcurio, who shared with me a worried and knowing glance.

Bird, who had returned moments before I arrived with both Ash and Flavia clinging to me, had failed to find Marcurio's mother, but did manage to bring back some food and a jug of water. He politely turned away from Ash and me, entertaining the children and Morgana instead.

When Ash calmed, he continued his tale. "The sky went dark, an' the cat people hurried around us. We didn't know what was happening. We couldn't understand. We weren't far from th' city, so we could hear… we heard the screams." Ash's muscles cramped as he relived the traumatic experience. His fists clenched and unclenched, and his body shook as he fought off another round of sobs.

"We st-stayed wi' the cat people. Didn't know what else to d-do." His gazed shifted to the floor, and his voice quieted. "Tha's when they came. Vampires. Fast. Covered in blood. Growling. The cat people… they clawed at 'em. One of 'em had a sword, killed a couple vamps, but—" he took a breath "—there were six, or so. Maybe ten. Dunno." He sniffled, and wiped his nose against his filthy, charred sleeve. "It only took seconds. I blinked an' me mates were dead. Cut open. Their blood was…." Ash lifted his shaking hands in front of his face. "Everything. Over everything. Some in my…." He closed his eyes, and exhaled a single sob. "I waited to die. I knew it was comin', but it didn't. It didn't. They jus' grabbed me. I-I screamed an' kicked. The cat people did nothing. The vampires, they flew. I dunno, I was flyin' while held by 'em. Moving fast, anyway. I kept screaming. An' then... fire."

"Fire?"

"Me hands," he clarified, lowering his dirty but uninjured hands before me, palms up. "Me hands were on fire." He began to shake again, and retreated into himself, tucking his hands under his elbows.

And I understood. Ash, as I had been, was a newfound mage. Like me, he discovered his magic in a moment of distress. In my case, I was being raped when it happened, when lightning first shot forth from my fingertips, possibly killing my assailants. Ash was being kidnapped by vampires when his body reacted in self-defense.

"You lit them on fire," I presumed.

Ash nodded, and wept again in silence.

I sat back on my heels, gaze fixed on the middle space. The revelation was as intriguing as it was heartbreaking. Why was Ash a mage? Had his friends also been capable of using magic before they were killed? Was Ash remade as I was, or was he simply, for whatever reason, able to produce fire from his hands as I was lightning and various other spells?

I looked up at Marcurio, who was busy cooing over Virald and talking to Bird, and in that moment I knew that the mage college graduate was going to have to be a mentor to Ash. If this situation with the vampires and clouded sun was not going to resolve itself soon – and it did not seem likely – I was going to have to leave again, and do what Meridia kept mentally urging me to do. Hunt, and kill. I couldn't take my family along with me. Marcurio needed to stay with them, protect and heal them and others with his magic. He was needed here, amongst the survivors. And Ash, relatively new to this fantastical world, definitely could not come with me. He would have to stay here, with Marcurio, and be his student.

The idea hit me like a slap to the face. "My journals."

"Huh?"

I turned to Ash, excited. "I have journals. I wrote in them in English and practiced Norren in them, too. I have vocab lists and everything!"

Ash gulped. "'Norren'?"

I cocked my head, unsure why he was confused. "Their language," I explained. "The people in Skyrim, the natives, anyway, they're called _Nords_ , and they speak _Norren_." I narrowed my eyes at Ash. "How long have you been here? Over a year, right?" It must have been over a year. I had not yet been pregnant when I first met him, and at that point he had been here for six months.

The man frowned. "Sumthin' like that. Maybe two."

"Can you speak the language at all?" I hadn't meant for the question to sound condescending, but I was certain it was once the words were spoken. I, after all, had been offered help in the form of Thrynn and Ralof, urged subconsciously by Kyne and Dibella. Likely, Ash and his friends had been on their own, and had spoken amongst themselves in English, never fully immersing into life in Skyrim.

Ash looked away. "No, not really. I can understand a bit, but no one understands me when I try to say sumthin'."

I released a heavy sigh. "Alright. I'm going to get you my journals. They're in my house, above ground, but…." I stood, and Ash looked up. "I'll get them, and then you'll know all there is to know about this universe." _And all there is to know about me_ , I recalled, but I wasn't terribly worried about my privacy. Ash's linguistic and cultural education was much more important than him not knowing how good a lover Stenvar was, or how insane Yrsarald had made me while he was sending me anonymous gifts.

I walked the two steps over to the seated Marcurio and Bird and kneeled in front of them, readying myself to explain everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to AriaKitty/Fluttermoth for beta-reading the first 13 chapters.
> 
>  _kis-kis_ \- pee-pee (urinate)
> 
>  _Vend-Hjalm_ \- Wind-Helm


	3. Chapter 3

“You cannot go out there by yourself, Deb.” Marcurio was insistent, angry that I would even suggest such a thing as going to the surface.

“I’ll be fine _,_ Marc. And I can move fast on my own. You’ve seen it. I can be there and back in just a few moments.”

Bird shrugged and turned to his husband. “She says she’ll be fine. You truly think she can’t do this alone?”

Marcurio pressed his lips together. “And if the vampires hear your Shout? I remind you that to us, they sound like an unnatural thunderclap. They will know it is you, as sure as I would. Especially if Torug is with them.”

“Fine, then I won’t use any Shouts unless I need to.”

“I’m serious, Deborah,” Marcurio continued. “These journals are not life and death.”

I jumped at my friend. “They are to Ash. The man needs help. And to me—” my voice cracked “—to me, Marc. I need them. I… can’t explain.”

“There you are,” called another man’s voice.

I turned to find Altanir passing under an archway, weaving through the crowd of refugees. I hadn’t seen the man in months, and I was both gladdened and annoyed to see him alive. As he walked, the sheathed sword at his hip swayed slightly. He had wielded the same sword in Windhelm. Damn that sword.

Altanir’s light-grey eyes drifted to Bird and Marcurio, and then back to me. “It’s good to see you all alive an’ well. Anuriel was asking for you, Deborah. She wants to hold a meeting.”

“Meeting?”

Altanir nodded. “About this place. We need to figure out how long we are going to be down here. How long we _can_ be down here.”

Too much. It was all too much. Battling and evading vampires, reuniting with Thrynn, worrying over my children, not knowing whether or not Marcurio’s mother lived, making sure Morgana had enough food by sacrificing some of mine, taking a fellow Earthling-mage under my tired wing, and now I had to go to a goddamned business meeting.

My mouth slid into a frown. The air rushed out of my nostrils. Altanir’s long black eyelashes flickered with a blink.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Alright.”

 

Altanir led me through a series of corridors until we came to a massive round room with a pool in its center. Other archways and doorways led off the hall, likely leading in various directions. If we were in an underground city, this must have been its heart.

Anuriel, Thrynn, and several others were standing at the center of a stone bridge that crossed the central pool. A reddish, dim light shined down upon the group from a small circular opening in the domed ceiling. As Altanir led me towards the group, I saw the green-haired Bosmer, Altanir’s friend Neriwen, stepping out of the shadows of an opposing corridor. Walking behind her were three fat, muddy cows, each led by a rope.

“Ah, there she is,” Anuriel remarked upon seeing Neriwen, who tied the cows to one of the various iron rings placed along the wall of the room. “Let us start the meeting.”

The steward began with introductions. The other people I did not recognize, two women and a man, were named Tonilia, Sapphire, and Etienne. I wondered if Sapphire was the woman’s real name. I waited for the customary greeting of friends of friends, the forearm grasp, but it never came. Perhaps that was more of a casual greeting. Business, I supposed, was different.

Everyone before me was already well-acquainted with one another. I had thought before that Neriwen was some sort of professional thief, or at the very least, she was that one person who knew how to get things, a woman known to locate certain items from time to time. She also knew how to pick a lock, I suspected. My neural connections flitted about, and I realized everyone standing before me in this mildew castle was likely a thief, or outlaw of some kind.

Perfect.

“Tonilia,” the steward said as she turned to the Redguard, “how many barrels do we have down here?”

“Several of mead. More of honeyed water. Countless jugs of honey.”

“And dry food?” Anuriel continued her inventory.

“Two hundred stone of dried meat,” answered Sapphire, “three hundred stone of salted fish, fifty of dried fruit. Pound upon pound of seeds and—”

“How _much_?” the steward insisted.

Sapphire checked a piece of paper she must have made notes on. “About seventy pounds of nuts and seeds. Fifteen large crates of travel cakes, seventeen of dried bread.”

“Fresh food?”

“Not much,” answered Tonilia. “Three large crates of eggs. Ten large sacks of flour.”

“Any chickens?”

“Forty-two hens and three roosters,” answered Etienne. His accent was odd.

Anuriel paused, calculating. “And feed for the animals?”

Etienne answered again. “In the stock room. Enough for at least one month.”

“Good.” The steward straightened her posture. “And how many people?”

“I counted one hundred an’ sixty-seven,” said Altanir.

 _Over fifty?_ I hadn’t seen that many people.

“One hundred and eighty-eight,” Etienne countered.

“Let’s say two hundred,” said the steward.

Two hundred. If I estimated about fifty people had been in that one room my family was camped in, where were the rest of these two hundred people? And where were the many thousands of other citizens of Riften?

Anuriel turned, and headed toward a cluttered, rotting wood desk near the wall. She frowned, and then wrote on a piece of paper, pausing occasionally between notes.

“The rest of the food….” The steward shook her head and wrote more. “The dried meat and fish alone should feed us for about a month. With _otelon_ , and with cow’s milk and fresh eggs… everything could give us three months.”

“That’s it!?” Tonilia shoved her way to the steward’s side and read the woman’s notes. “Damn.”

Altanir grumbled. “That is a lot of _otelon._ ”

 _Otelon_. It must have meant ‘rationing’.

“I’m not sure cows an’ chickens will live well underground,” Altanir added.

“So we hunt,” said Sapphire. “Or, well, Neriwen and others hunt.”

Neriwen shook her head. “The deer are all gone, or dead. The vampires killed some. The rest must have run away.”

“And the fish?” asked the steward.

“Floating on the lake,” Etienne answered, frowning. “The water, it’s… it looks like blood. We haven’t checked the fish farms.”

_Blood. The water is blood. Of course the water is blood._

Anuriel sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Silence took over the round room until a drip of water sounded from behind me.

“What happens after three months?” I asked the group, and waited for an answer that was never offered. “If we have enough food for three months, we cannot stay here for that long. We need to move before the food is gone.”

Etienne cleared his throat, and took a step closer to me. “We… were hoping you would kill the vampires by then. Fix the sun.”

I took in a breath and stared slack-jawed at this stranger before me. Shaking my head, I asked, “How? How am I supposed to fix this? I don’t know where the vampires are coming from. I don’t know if more will come here. I don’t know if there are fifty or five thousand of them out there,” I said, pointing arbitrarily to my left. “And I don’t know why the sky is red.”

“We don’t know where to begin or what to do,” said Altanir. “It takes nearly two weeks to cross this country on horseback. Do you expect her to, what, fly around and look for vampires?” The man turned to me, brow furrowed. “You can’t fly… can you?”

I hoped my scowl was a good enough answer.

“I’d like to see that,” Thrynn added with a chuckle.

“So we move,” said Altanir, slicing the air with his hand. “The need for it is unquestionable. The vampires know we’re here, an’ we need a steady supply of food, an’ protection.”

“Do we even know if the vampires will return?” Anuriel asked.

“I’ve….” Altanir began to answer, but after catching my gaze, halted. He then turned back to Anuriel. “I’ve been to see the Dawnguard. After the sky went dark, well, who else would have answers, yeah?” The man rolled his right shoulder. “Best they can figure, someone used a spell to shade the sun, likely so vampires could hunt during the day. A vampire witch, or….” He shook his head. “They’re worried all of this has something to do with Torug.” Altanir turned to me, and then to the others. “A vampire Dragonborn.”

“The orc?” Neriwen asked.

Altanir nodded.

“It is him,” I confirmed. “Torug. He sent vampires to Windhelm before the sky went dark. Then I was taken here. And then—” I took in a slow breath “—then Torug sent vampires here. All three times, they were the same, or… similar vampires. Torug’s vampires.”

“He’s after you, isn’t he?” Sapphire asked, closing in on me, eyes smoldering. “This is happening _because_ of you!”

I stood my ground against the taller woman, meeting her glare. “Torug is after me, yes, but I am not the reason his vampires are killing and taking people.”

“Are you sure of that?” Sapphire pressed.

Altanir, towering over both of us, wedged himself in between. “Back off it, Sapphire. No one has any idea what these vampires are doing, or when they will stop.” He took a step back. “But we saw no sign of them in Dayspring _Gjul_.”

“Dayspring?“ Anuriel squinted at the man. “Why are you talking about—”

“I think we should go there, Anuriel. All of us.” Altanir approached the steward. “The valley is protected an’ full of wild game, an’ there are farms an’ gardens. I doubt any vampire would even know it exists, let alone find the entrance, which is well hidden. Priests _keep_ it hidden. An’ the fort has a safehouse underground, like this, but with far more supplies.”

“And how long would it take to get there?” asked Anuriel.

“About two day’s ride. But on foot? With children?” The man paused, calculating. “I would expect about one week. If we’re lucky, some carts and horses will still be at the stables or nearby, and we can carry supplies that way, travel longer days. Longest, without carts for the children, two weeks.”

The steward exhaled sharply through her pursed lips. “Unacceptable. We would all be killed, for certain.”

“Perhaps not everyone will want to leave,” Neriwen said. “The young and old can stay here, and the rest can travel faster. I can stay, continue to check for deer.”

“So, we ask for volunteers to travel with us to the Fort?” Sapphire asked. “And then what, the rest of the survivors go later? Do they stay here forever? What if the crops die? What if this is the way of the world now and the sky will be red from this day forward? What if—”

“Enough, Sapphire.” Anuriel muzzled the agitated woman with a firm grasp to her shoulder. “Lower your voice. These halls carry sound much too far. I do not want these people more upset than they already are.”

“These people?” Sapphire repeated. “You speak as if you’re their jarl, now.”

“She is, Saph.” Thrynn nodded. “Stewards always act as jarl in the jarl’s absence.”

Sapphire sneered. “Says the man fucking the jarl.”

_Wait, what?_

Anuriel groaned, and hid her face in her palms. “Shut up, all of you.” The Bosmer inhaled and exhaled deeply several times before speaking again. “Jarl Laila is dead. Her children are dead. Thousands more are dead. Save your bitterness for the vampires.” The steward breathed deep once more. “We have only just arrived. Let us do a second head count, and take another note of what food we have collected. Sapphire, is the _kalsif_ still working?”

“Mostly. It leaks, but it works.”

“Good. Then we have drinkable water. Etienne?” Anuriel turned to the man. “You and Sapphire, please make sure that there are cups and bowls by the water basin, and _ferdala_ a piece of dried beef to everyone. Tonilia and I will begin to prepare rationed meals. Everyone, do let people know that there is water, here. Oh, and Altanir,” the steward continued, “you and Thrynn, and….“ The woman gestured to me.

“Deborah,” I reminded.

“Deborah. If we’re going to have to move these people anywhere, we will need carts. Horses and horse carts are best, but hand carts will do. Perhaps not now, but soon, I will need you to look for these outside.”

“So, you agree,” Altanir said, surprised, “we might need to move to the _Gjul_.”

Anuriel nodded. “We might, Altanir.” She looked me over critically. “And get this one some armor, please. We can’t send the Dragonborn out in linens.”

With that, Anuriel, Tonilia, Etienne, and Sapphire started for the storage room, I assumed. Neriwen took it upon herself to lead the cows somewhere, perhaps to whatever underground corral this place offered.

Altanir took one look at me and then turned away. “Alright. Armor. This way.”

Following Altanir, I asked, “Where are all of the people?”

“What people?” asked Thrynn, who was following us for some reason.

“I only saw maybe fifty,” I said. “Where are the rest of them?”

“Oh, Anuriel and Laila started to send people down here after the first attack, just in case. We’ve been collecting food and supplies for years, mostly kept at the _vig_.”

 _Vig._ “Fortress?”

“The Jarl’s Hall.”

“Ah.” It was hardly a fortress. More like a large house. Perhaps ‘ _vig_ ’ stood for various kinds of strongholds.

“Anyway,” Thrynn continued, “yeah, this place doesn’t look like much, but can house hundreds of people. If the situation had been different, there wouldn’t have been much room for the city folk down here.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Altanir answered for the man. “What he means is that the Thieves Guild is dead, as well as all of the other business that went on down here. Everyone left, or became”—he paused to watch Thrynn’s shadow, the gaunt redhead man, approach us from the side. “Like him. They became like him.”

So I was right about this place, and the people who had attended the meeting. They were all thieves. In a guild. A guild of thieves.

Altanir continued walking, leading the way with a torch, and headed toward a large vault-like door made of ornate steel. Inside the room, revealed after Altanir lit a brazier, were a few sparse shelves and tables showcasing armor, clothing, weapons, and other supplies.

“Take what you need,” said Altanir. “Just close the door when you’re finished.” The man then grasped my shoulder, gaining my attention. He spoke in a hushed tone. “Come find me later, hm? We have things to discuss.”

I watched as the man who vaguely looked like my ex-husband left me, Thrynn, and Thrynn’s redhead friend alone in the storage room.

Ignoring the company, I began to rummage through the piles of leather and metal, looking for anything that might fit me.

It took me a moment to notice that Thrynn was staring at me. He was in a defensive stance, fists in front of his face.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“Waiting for you to hit me again,” he answered with a grin.

I sighed and shook my head, and started for a table of boots.

Thrynn, who for a while was looking through items as well, ruined the lengthy, pleasant silence by uttering, “This is nice.”

I glanced blankly at the man. “What, armor?”

He chuckled. “No. You, me, able to understand one another. Last I knew, you could barely form sentences.”

I pretended to ignore him.

“You seem to be doing well, aside from the, eh….”

I peered at him as he mimed a set of claws raking down his face.

“We’re almost twins,” he joked as he traced the recently healed slash down the side of his face. “Liked you better with more meat on your bones, though.”

I groaned, and rubbed my forehead.

“So, tell me,” he said, “are you this ‘mage from the future’ I’ve heard about? And Dragonborn? ‘Deborah the Red’?”

I stood silent for a moment, but then nodded. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Kills dragons, fights vampires and zombies, wields a Daedra’s sword and shoots lightning out of her eyes.” He chuckled again. “You?”

I eyed him, conveying my best “fuck you” glare.

He laughed. “Well, damn. If you’re down here with the rest of us….” He paused, and his voice sombered. “It must’ve gotten bad out there. I thought only a few vampires attacked, which… _you_ apparently killed.”

My jaw moved side to side, gritting tooth against tooth. “More came.”

Thrynn’s redhead friend stood at the far end of the room, staring at a wooden mannequin sporting some sort of uniformed armor. I caught the faint shimmer of green magic traversing the mounted leather.

“Who is that man?” I asked of the silent shadow. “He looks ill.”

Thrynn smirked. “That’s Brynjolf. Friend of mine. Hired me after a job fell through and I was desperate. We were doing well for ourselves, food and wine and gold.” Thrynn paused, and looked towards his feet. “The jobs stopped coming. He had no more gold to send to his wife in Solitude.” His gaze shifted back to me. “He wasn’t happy about being in Riften, you understand, but he had gotten himself into a mess and had to stay here for a while. She left, in the end, after the money stopped coming. Took the kids to High Rock. She’s a _Harstene._ Bryn became depressed, started with the _skooma_.” Thrynn fidgeted, and scratched his facial scruff. “Well, it does shit to you, makes you not hungry. He used to be almost as handsome as me, believe it or not.”

His grin only won him a roll of my eyes. “You live down here, then? Both of you? Why?”

He stood there for a short while, considering something as he was watching me. “When I joined the Thieves Guild, there were only a few people, and we all lived down here, safe. A while after, more and more people joined. Now that it’s dead, nowhere else to go.” He smiled warmly. “Well, that’s not true. I coulda gone anywhere, but I stayed for Bryn. I’m tryin’a get him off the juice.”

“Juice?”

“ _Skooma_.”

“What’s ‘skooma’?”

“It’s a potion, basically. Made of moon sugar and sometimes flowers for flavor or certain effects.” He gazed at me, hazel eyes frozen, thinking. “When our business went to shit, our friend Niruin decided to open a _mella_ -house down here. We did well for a while. Made all our money back and more. But the skooma thing became so bad that no one, ehh, no one wanted to get with Bryn, anymore.”

I half-sat on a table, arms crossed over my chest. “What’s a _mella_ -house?”

Thrynn smiled. “You woulda done well in the business. Yanno, you’re a lot more attractive when you don’t speak like a two-year-old. Shit!” He slapped his knee. “I coulda called you ‘Dibella’! Made a fortune.”

I furrowed my brow. I wasn’t sure how to take his initial compliment or latter comment. I repeated my question. “What is a _mella_ -house?”

Still smiling, Thrynn stood, advanced slowly toward me, and cupped each of my shoulders with his palms. “Money for sex, _Ki-Dibella_. Money for sex.”

 _Mella_ -house. Whore house.

Silence, and staring. I contemplated the fact that Thrynn had sold people, including this Brynjolf and probably even himself, as sex objects to those willing and able to pay. My stomach turned. I had no problem with brothels in general. I did, however, have a problem with the idea of Thrynn parading me around as a sex goddess.

I shrugged Thrynn off of me and returned my attention to the boots I had been looking through. “Don’t touch me,” I warned.

“Alright, alright.” Thrynn began to sort through something at my side. “Yeah, I suppose I deserve that—” he laughed “—and the punch. Guess you’re angrier than I thought you’d be.”

Furious, I slammed the boot I had been holding onto the table. Quietly, trying to contain my rage and still looking at the boots, I finally gave the man the words I had been holding back.

“You. Left. Me. You _left_   me, Thrynn. Just—” I roared as I hurled the boot across the room, scaring the skittish Brynjolf. “You took the horse. You left me with a bad map and that, that fucking letter!” I spun round to the man. “I _am_ angry. Angry at you, at your damn cock.” I emphasized the word with a gesture toward the man’s crotch. “Angry that the first gods-damned friend I had in this world was _you_ , who claimed me as _his_ and still let his friends rape me! I’m angry that you left me to be captured by Imperials and taken to Helgen all because I didn’t know how to say ‘I’m not a fucking Stormcloak’! I was pregnant, Thrynn. Thanks to you. I nearly died at Helgen, and then I bled and cramped and—” I fell backwards a bit, caught by the edge of the table. I borrowed my face into my cupped palms and gritted my teeth, muting another outburst.

“Helgen?” Thrynn asked after a lengthy silence. “I thought you were headed to Winterhold. Didn’t a dragon kill everyone at Helgen?”

Growling, I shoved the man. “Get out.” I shoved him again. “Get out! Let me look through this shit in peace!” A final shove was accentuated by a flare of lightning magic sparkling from my fingertips. I turned to the stunned Brynjolf and mouthed the words again. _Sua ut_. Get out. Get. The. Fuck. Out.

Brynjolf ran. The large door thudded shut, hopefully hitting Thrynn’s ass in the process.

 

Alone. Finally. Separated from the world by the latched steel door, all I heard was my own ragged breathing and enraged thoughts. I stared at the table of boots for a good few minutes before I calmed, and began to look in earnest for armor that would fit me.

_That was a bit extreme, honeybee._

“Yeah… well—” I aligned a boot with the sole of my shoe to check the size “—you were angry too when I told you about him.”

_True. And I wanted to do more than shove him._

“See? Now either hush or help me find armor.”

_These are all old and worn._

“ _You’re_   old and worn,” I snipped at Yrsarald’s ghost.

 _I just want you to be protected_ , I imagined him saying in his typical concerned, warm tone.

I sighed, and stared at nothing. “Then protect me,” I encouraged, hoping to hell that his actual spirit would manifest as my guardian angel.

It didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> otelon - rationing  
> Gjul - Canyon  
> kalsif - water filter  
> ferdala - distribute  
> Vig - keep/fortress  
> Harstene - High Rocker/Breton  
> skooma - a heroin-like syrup  
> mella – whore/prostitute  
> ki - not  
> Sua ut - leave


	4. Chapter 4

On my way back to my family, I spotted Altanir, and called out to him as I neared. He turned, and his expression morphed from stern to soft once he noticed my sorry excuse for armor.

“You wanted to speak with me,” I said.

“Yeah.” He swallowed and looked around us, and then back at me. “Let’s find somewhere quiet.”

The seriousness of his tone matched his expression. “Alright,” I nodded, and then followed him away from the crowded hall.

“How does the armor fit?” he asked as we walked.

“Fine. A bit big. I will just have to eat more.”

The man snorted through a laugh as we rounded a corner. “There is plenty of food at the Fort. We will be able to pack full bags before leaving there, for wherever we’ll need to go.”

Through several more corridors we passed, illuminated solely by Altanir’s torch and a dim Candlelight spell. Eventually we arrived at a seemingly remote section of the complex, where the rush of water promised to drown out our conversation.

“So,” he began, “you an’ Thrynn, hm?”

Whatever facial expression I was making as a response to his ridiculous statement sent Altanir into a fit of laughter, complete with snorting and tear-filled eyes.

“I’m just joking,” he said as his breathing calmed. “I can practically smell the hatred you have for him.” He grinned. “I thought there were plenty of rumors about you before, but now you’ve added to the pot talk of a fiery romance gone rotten.”

I gagged a little bit, and uttered flatly, “No. Just… no. We met years ago. He saved my life, and then left me. Then bad things happened to me.” I glared at Altanir. “Is this why you wanted to speak with me?”

“Heh, no, no.” Altanir leaned against the stone wall and crossed his arms. The torch, now braced in a wall sconce, lit up the ends of his throwing daggers that were sheathed along a strap across his chest. His smile faded, and his eyes filled with sadness.

“I lied, before,” he continued, “when I said that nobody knew why the vampires are doing what they are doing. The collecting an’ killing, I mean. People are… cattle to them, understand? It seems they are mainly taking humans; Nords, they think. Leaving or killing the rest. The sun—”

I held my hand out to silence the man. “Who thinks?”

“Who thinks what?”

“You said, ‘they think’ Nords are being taken. Who is ‘they’?”

Altanir scratched his chin scruff. “The Dawnguard. Apologies, I assumed you would understand.”

“And you’re part of this Dawnguard?”

“No, not officially. I’m a businessman, an’ business took me to the Fort sometimes, but only by means of my uncle. As I told you when we met, I spent some time with them, hunting. My uncle does not like me, but the situation in Skyrim being what it is, he put that all aside.”

I rubbed my forehead. I was exhausted, and all I wanted was a Marcurio pillow and soft baby snores to lull me into slumber. “I still don’t understand why this is a private conversation.”

Altanir walked away from me a few paces, and then turned back. “Cattle, Deborah.” His posture had sunk somewhat. “Cattle.”

I shrugged. “Vampires drink the blood of people. This is not new information. Yes, it’s horrible but—”

“Gods.” The man breathed a nervous laugh. “I suppose it takes a farmer to understand.” He smoothed his palm down his faintly tattooed face. “The vampires, they cannot let the land die. The spell that is blocking out the sun, it does not stop all light from coming through. The plants still grow, at least for now, an’ magic does not fade completely. Do you know why?”

It took me a moment, but I understood. “Vampires need people.”

“And what do people need?”

I narrowed my eyes at the man. I was not in the mood for games.

“Food,” he answered himself. “Farms an’ pastures. But no one wants to work the farms for fear of the vampires, yes? The vampires, they are collecting people for food, an’ for labor.”

“You—the Dawnguard—believe the vampires are collecting people as slaves?”

He nodded. “Slaves that do all the work. Slaves that produce food for themselves, as well as food for the vampires.”

“What do you mean, ‘produce food for the vampires’? If the people are the food—” I stopped speaking, and stared at the man before me. In that instant, I understood. The vampires were not simply collecting people to be their dinner, they were collecting people to be their livestock. Self-preserving, self-reproducing livestock. My voice trembled as I spoke aloud my epiphany. “The collecting, they’re… breeding people?”

Altanir’s gaze lowered as he approached me. “We think so, yes. This is why only healthy, young adults are being taken. Mostly women.”

My stomach turned, and I barely contained a wretch. “I… hadn’t noticed.”

One of his hands rested on my shoulder, offering the faintest of supportive squeezes. “You were busy trying to keep everyone alive.”

They made sense, now, the conversations I had overheard in Riften after the attacks. Children were rarely attacked. Nords seemed to die or disappear more than people of other races. I recalled quite a few people saying their wives were missing. And then there were those who woke up the next day ill with vampirism, later attacking their families or fleeing the city. Most of those people were adult men, like Ralof.

My heart hurt to think of my friend.

“Why,” I breathed, “why did you not want to tell everyone this? Why is this secret?”

“Because what everyone already knows is horrible enough, no?” The man stepped back, and leaned against the wall again. “The sky is darkened so the vampires can hunt during the day. I don’t know if they also intended to block out the stars at night. My spells were weak before, but now I can barely heal a papercut. What the Dawnguard isn’t sure of is if this also affects vampire magic. They have their own sort of… well, they can cast whatever spells they could cast as mortals, but vampires are gifted with magic unique to them. It’s also how new vampires are made. As far as we are aware.”

“With a spell?”

Altanir nodded.

I thought about this fact, about what Torug had tried to do to me on top of the mountain. Whatever spell the orc had cast, it hadn’t worked. “I think I might be—” _immune, what is the word for immune?_ “—I think I can’t be made a vampire. Torug tried, and he said it didn’t work.”

“When was this? On the mountain?”

“Yes.”

“Before Windhelm.”

“Yes.”

Altanir eyed me, digesting the information. “Do you think the spell failed because of what you are?”

I eyed the man right back, unsure of exactly what he thought I was. “Child of Akatosh, yes. I am resistant to spells. I can walk through some wards, but as you can see—” I gestured to the burn scar left by Torug’s fire breath “—I am not resistant to Shouts.”

Altanir stepped closer. “That is not what I meant.”

The eye contact became unnerving. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The man stood half an arm’s distance from me. “Then say what you mean,” I muttered through my nerves.

With an odd break to the current tension, Altanir smiled. “You’re from _Latè_.”

My face scrunched with bewilderment. “I’m from _latte_?” _If only_.

Altanir wagged a finger at me. “You, you’re from the same place as Nadège. You have the same confusion an’ broken speech sometimes, though she spoke in a different accent. As you are not her color, I suppose this means you were from a different land, but still from _Latè_. The smell,” he said, tapping his nose, “it is the same.”

My mouth hung open, making room for all the confusion Altanir was feeding me. “Now I smell? Altanir, what are you talking about?”

“You are not from here, Deborah. Clearly. My wife was from another world, too.”

_Well. Holy shit._ “Did you say you, that you smelled…?”

Altanir gave a single nod.

Setting _those_ implications aside, I addressed his assumption. “Yes, Altanir, you’re correct. I am from another world. It is not a secret, but I do not need everyone knowing this. People seem to… figure it out eventually, anyway. But, I am not from a place called _Latè_. My world is called _Earth_.”

“ _Earth_ , yes, that is another word she used for it. Nadège spoke three languages, not including the one we are speaking now. I think the other word she used for her land was—” he paused, remembering “— _La-Terre_. Yes, _La-Terre_.” Altanir smiled broadly at the memory of his wife. “She was a very intelligent woman, among other things.”

French. That was French this man just spoke. _La terre_. Shock hit my lungs and I forgot how to breathe. I leaned forward, pressing my palms to my thighs.

“And, yes,” he continued, “I knew soon after I met you. The same as how I knew you were pregnant.” He gently rubbed my upper back. “This, I will explain once you can breathe again. For now, I will just say to you that Nadège was also somewhat resistant to magic. She could not cast spells, though. I believe this magic resistance comes from your world, from being born there.”

“But….” I shook my head. “But I am the Child of Akatosh. I was remade in this world. I did not just… _come_ here. My body is still on _Earth_.”

“Your body?”

“I died there. Arkay and Meridia took my soul here. Or… something like that.” I stood up straight. “They remade me with Akatosh’s help.”

Altanir shrugged. “Perhaps none of that matters. Perhaps it is something else. But I suggest you do not assume you can’t be turned into a vampire. There may be a way, but it may require something different than for most people.”

I glared at Altanir, breathing harshly through my nose. For whatever reason, my body in that moment decided to play-punch the man in the shoulder, though the impact had a bit more power to it than intended and he fell back a few steps.

“You waited until now to tell me these things? You could have told me this months ago. You could have told me I was pregnant before I started to show!”

“I could have, yes. I didn’t want to trouble you further. An’ let us not forget the fact that you hated me an’ wished me dead, not speaking with me most of the time.”

Altanir’s expression was serious. He truly believed his words. “I did not hate you, Altanir.”

“Deborah, I put my sword through your lover’s skull. Yes, to save your life, an’ you had pierced his lung before that, but I am not an idiot; I know hatred when I smell it.”

I sighed, and backed away from the man. My arms wrapped snuggly around my chest. “You’re a werebeast,” I declared.

“Hmph, no, not exactly.” Altanir adopted my position, crossing his arms. “My father, a Nord, was a werewolf. Born that way, but raised by human farmers who found him. For whatever reason, his werewolf parents didn’t want him. My mother was a Redguard, not a drop of animal in her blood.” He chuckled. “Sorry, she liked to joke that all Nords are part animal. Anyway, I think you understand why I want you to know this about me. This, and about my wife.”

I did understand, and I frowned, deeply. “My son.”

Altanir nodded. “Your son. I cannot say if the child of a werebear and a _teryen_ will grow to be the same as the child of a werewolf and a Redguard, but I can tell you that my boys are completely human. Nothing special about them, at all.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Believe me. Last I knew they were still there, in Whiterun.” He looked away, and frowned. “I don’t know if, if Whiterun….”

Whiterun. A huge, important city, full of lovely people, and family. For all we knew, it could be in ashes. I changed the subject. “So… what can you do? Smell, and… can you shift?”

“No. I tried, too. My father thought I might have just been late to show signs of the need to shift, because I was half human, but no, I am just a man. And yes, I can smell. My mother always said the only thing he gave me was his nose, though he was a very tall man, too.”

“And your eyes? Were your father’s grey, too?”

“No, his were green. My mother, an’ her brother, both have grey eyes. Well, Isran’s are more silver.” He shrugged. “It’s a Redguard thing. We have pretty eyes. Why do you ask?”

I kicked an imaginary pebble. “I know a werewolf, but she was just a Redguard before that. And her former lover, a Nord, he is a werewolf too, but was just a Nord before that. They both have silver eyes.”

“Ahh, right, the Companions.”

“You know about them?”

Altanir chuckled. “We smelled each other. Was impossible not to know. My sons joined them. Keeps them out of trouble. Mostly. Not everyone there is a werewolf, just a few.”

I continued to hug myself. “So, Virald… will be like you?”

The man smiled. “Probably. No promises, though. He might have a good nose or, I don’t know, be very strong. You will have to wait an’ see. When I was young, the strong smells upset me often. Does your boy cry a lot?”

The vision of Virald’s angry tomato face made me frown again. “He does, but he has not had a good life so far. I am surprised he was not lost while… during Torug’s attack on the mountain.”

The noisy inflow of water filled the void of our paused conversation.

“What exactly happened up there?” he asked. “Last I knew, you had not told anyone, even your friends.”

My fingers tugged at the folds of my armor and held on tight.

“Have you at least told a priest?” he pressed.

I avoided eye contact. “Marc and Bird know. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Altanir kept quiet for a moment, and then thankfully changed the subject. “Alright. Back to the matter of vampires. We need to go to Fort Dawnguard. Soon. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. We need information, more than what Isran is willing to offer me. I’m no one. _You_ are not no one. We can also make sure they can accept the survivors into the valley. Hopefully they will even send some people to escort everyone to the Fort.”

He made to leave the area, but turned back. “We will need to take some people with us. I will sort that out myself, if that is alright with you. Tomorrow, we can search for horses an’ carts. I’ll bring Thrynn an’ Neriwen at least. The less people the better, I think. If we need more hands, we can just go back an’ get them.”

I waited for him to say more, but found only silence. “Alright, that… that sounds fine.”

Altanir planted his hands on his hips, and while looking away from me his body relaxed with a deep sigh. He nodded at his own thoughts, and looked again to me. “Good. I will find you in the morning. Come, I will walk with you to your area.”

I dragged slowly behind him, but after a few steps, stopped. “Altanir?”

“Hmm?” He turned back to me.

“Can you… do you speak _English_? What about _French_? I know a little _French_. Ehh, _français. Anglais._ ”

Altanir grinned and stood tall, puffing his chest. “ _Madanm mwen… te… ayyyisyen._ ” I didn’t understand what he just said, but he clearly did. “ _I cann… talk… Eenglesh,_ ” he continued as my jaw fell to the floor. “ _Parluh-twoi françaiii?”_

He chuckled, and continued walking. “Don’t get too excited, Red. I don’t know much more than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern languages not translated for reasons :)  
> Well, one of them. The French is just eccentric pronunciation of "Do you speak French?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'd like to thank fluttermoth/ariakitty and Edward King for beta reading the first 13 chapters of this book.

“There she is,” Bird announced upon seeing me. “And she stole someone’s armor.”

I glowered at my friend. “I did not steal anything, Bird. There is a room with some armor. Altanir showed me. Anuriel wanted me to have armor.”

“And you chose _that_?” Marcurio asked, inspecting the pieces of chainmail and the worn patchwork leather and fabric material.

I swatted him away. “It was all that fit me.”

“ _Hey, you’re back_.” Ash leapt up to greet me. He too noted what I was wearing. “ _Where’s that fancy armor y’ had? The glowy one_.”

I put on a brave face for the young man. “ _It was destroyed, unfortunately. Are you feeling better? Food and water? Maybe we should see about a bath for you_.”

Ash laughed. _“Yeah, I am a bit pongy, aren’t I_.”

I felt like I was mothering a child, but considering how well the man could communicate with others, I might as well have been. I turned to Altanir. “I assume there are baths here, somewhere?”

“Of course there are. Nothing fancy, but baths, yeah.”

“Can you show this man where they are?” I indicated Ash. “He’s from my world. Maybe find some clothes for him… and then burn the ones he’s wearing. He also needs a toothbrush, badly.”

Altanir grimaced. “Yeah, I can do that. Does… he understand us?”

“No, not well. Try out your _English_ on him, slowly. And if he speaks _English_ too quickly for you to understand, just tell him _‘slowly, please_ ’. You’ll be fine. His name is Ash, by the way.” I turned back to Ash. “ _This is Altanir. He will show you where the baths are, and he’ll find you some new clothes and a toothbrush. He understands some English but please speak slowly, okay?”_

Ash’s eyes widened. “ _He speaks English? How?”_

“ _Nevermind how,”_ I said, _“just go_.” I pressed my palm against Ash’s lower back, urging him toward Altanir. The pair set off quickly, and I thought I heard Altanir say, “hello.”

I turned back to Marcurio, Bird, and Morgana, who had all been watching the exchange with intrigue. Flavia, in Morgana’s arms, waved goodbye to the departing men.

“Well, he’s a han’some one,” Morgana muttered, likely talking about Altanir and not the straggly, smelly Brit she had been hanging around. 

“Yes, he is,” agreed Marcurio, who promptly engaged in a giggling elbow nudge fight with his husband before they sat down again.

Normally I would have agreed with Morgana and Marcurio, because objectively Altanir was indeed an attractive man. But he reminded me too much of my ex-husband Greg, with his olive-tan skin tone and contrasting light eyes. Just looking at the man brought back too many bittersweet memories. Add to that what he did to Yrsarald. Circumstances were pushing me to stand at Altanir’s side, but that didn’t mean I had to _like_ the man. I didn’t hate him, but struggled to tolerate being near him.

I groaned as I sat, my body delighting in the rest. “Tomorrow, Altanir and I, and some others, will search for horses and carts. The people here may have to move. We will see.”

“Good,” said Marcurio, “then you can see about finding your journals at the same time.”

I nodded. “That is my plan.”

“So,” chimed Bird, “are you… going to tell us about the meeting?”

I fiddled with a toggle at the front of my armor. “It was just about supplies. They will be rationing meals.”

“Where do they plan to move everyone?” asked Marcurio. “How many people are down here?”

“To a fort. And, maybe two hundred people.”

Bird nodded. “I walked around a bit – that seems right. Do they know what happened to the rest of the townspeople?”

I frowned. “I don’t know.” I shifted my gaze to my son, who was asleep in Bird’s arms. “Can I hold him?” I asked, arms already outstretched.

Bird stood on his knees to transfer the infant. “You don’t need to ask, Deb,” he said as he placed the boy in my arms. “Actually, I think he left a gift for you in his rags. Perhaps you should follow Altanir to the baths and clean up the little gift.”

Marcurio, not missing a beat, dropped the diaper satchel at my side and went right back to playing a sort of dice game with Morgana.

“Well, thank you,” I lofted in my best hyper-sarcastic tone. “My pleasure.”

 

One of the baths was not far from our hall. In the expansive room was one very large circular wood basin. Grooves in the floor drained water away from the bath and toward a drainage system, and the only heating mechanism I saw was a cauldron positioned over a roaring fire. The room was filled with smoke, but the lack of doors allowed the air to circulate somewhat.

Ash was not yet in the water, electing first to wash the majority of grime with wet rags. He turned his back to us and remained quiet. I tried to ignore the fact that he was naked and went about the business of cleaning Virald’s bum.

“Deborah?” The soft, gravelly voice startled me. I turned to find a familiar face.

“J’zargo!” I gasped, and waved him over. He was wearing the same scary black plate armor I had seen him in months ago. His gaze flitted briefly to my neck, but his attention was torn away by two large, squirming bundles held in the crook of each arm.

The Khajiit smiled, and proceeded to set down the bundles on a table. The swaddling fabric was removed, and two grey tiger cubs emerged. Or, at least that’s what the animals looked like.

“Cubs?” I breathed. It took me a moment, but my brain finally put all the pieces together. “Are those… are those Azijjan’s kittens? They’re huge!”

J’zargo chuckled. “They are _Senche-raht_. Just wait a few years. You will see what ‘huge’ truly means.”

“What is a ‘sen-chay-rot’?”

J’zargo looked to me, and with shining feline eyes, he answered, “Humans call them ‘battlecats’.”

Battle cats. As J’zargo explained it, _Senche-raht_ were traditionally used by Khajiit as mounts, like horses were in Skyrim. _Senche-raht_ , however, were much, much bigger, reaching sizes as big as mammoths. J’zargo described himself and Azijjan as _Suthay-raht_ , while Fa’nir was _Cathay_. These were apparently different breeds of Khajiit. I found it difficult to believe that such a thing was not passed on genetically, but rather was determined by the moon phases at the moment of their birth. Azijjan’s conception had not been planned, and so her birth time was not aligned correctly for a Khajiit to become a _Suthay-raht_ or _Cathay_ , as most Khajiit in Skyrim hoped for.

“We cannot know what will become of them,” J’zargo continued. “Perhaps they will need to live in Elsweyr. I fear that the people of Skyrim, Nords in particular, will not look kindly at such beasts.” The man’s paw smoothed down the back of one of the twins, much to the kitten’s delight. “They will be feared even more than me and my kind.” J’zargo eyed Virald. “The boy-child is yours?”

“He is.”

“The father is Marcurio or Bird as well?”

I smirked. Of course he would assume that. He knew about Flavia, and how she came to be. “No. His father….” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “His father was Jarl of Windhelm. Not Ulfric,” I quickly inserted, “but his… the next one. Yrsarald. He was the one sending me gifts while I was at the college. I don’t know if you, if you would remember—”

“J’zargo remembers. You mentioned this Yrsarald while we traveled together. You say, ‘was’. He is no longer living?”

After a short pause, I shook my head.

J’zargo made a noise halfway between a sigh and a grumble. “That is a shame.”

“ _Fe!_ ” The sharp sound came from the baths entrance. Altanir looked as though he was struck by a blunt object. He set a pile of clothing onto a table. “Apologies, I’ve smelled too much baby shit in my life. Ash,” he turned to the man, “clothing, toothbrush. Deborah,” he turned and pointed to me, “tomorrow. Goodnight.” The man made a tiny bow and sped away.

J’zargo clicked his tongue. “The Redguard is odd.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What is tomorrow?” the Khajiit asked.

I turned to the man as I dipped a clean cloth into a water basin. “We go to find horses. Do you want to come?”

J’zargo thought a moment before answering with a definite, “No. J’zargo cannot leave Azijjan.” The room was silent but for the quiet purrs of the Khajiit kittens. “You will be safe, out there?” J’zargo asked.

I breathed in deep. “Yeah, I’ll be alright.” I turned to find J’zargo already re-swaddling his children.

He lifted them into his arms. “Are you finished?” he asked.

“No. Go. I will find you later. I’m with Marc and Bird and their daughter in the hall near here.”

J’zargo’s whiskers twitched with a smile. “It will be good to see them, again, too. Perhaps we can wait out this mess, together.”

J’zargo gone, I was alone with my infant son, and my newly adopted adult son. I switched to speaking English, which thankfully was still natural to me.

“Altanir brought clothes and a toothbrush for you,” I informed Ash.

“Thanks.” The young man tentatively slid himself into the wooden tub. “Ah-h, it’s cold already.”

Ignoring the heating cauldron, which I did not feel like trying to lift, I plunged a hand into the tub water and cast a fire spell.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Heating the water with magic.”

“Really?”

I politely kept my gaze on my arm. Seeing Ash’s bare rear end was enough for tonight.

The man then asked, “Can… can I do that?”

“Try,” I encouraged.

I heard the splash of a hand going below the water surface. “What do I do?”

Explaining how magic worked was not something I had done very often. Marcurio was infinitely better at it, one of the many reasons I was going to leave Ash in his care.

“You just… want it to happen,” I said. “You need to be warm, so, your magic should obey you. I was hopeless with fire magic in the beginning, but eventually I needed to see, and….” I recalled the moment the candles had lit themselves, the night I had first dreamt of Hermaeus Mora. My magic almost always introduced itself during a dire situation. “When I was at the mage’s college—”

“Mage’s college?” he asked.

I smiled. “Yes. When I was there, my instructor told me that before my lessons began, I had to first ignite a candle without a fire-starter kit. It took me forever. Or, it felt like forever. I think it was a few weeks, I don’t remember. Now I can light fireplaces and cast weak fire spells. My main element is lightning,” I said as I cast with my other hand a few dull sparks. “Is the water any warmer?”

“A bit, yeah.”

I stepped away to collect Virald, who I had left nested in a pile of clean buckskin towels. “Try to cast a fire spell in the water. Even if you cast a fireball, it can’t do any harm underwater. It will, however, bring the temperature up. Do you think you can find your way back to us?”

“You’re leaving?” Ash jumped at the idea, terrified.

“I… I don’t have to,” I admitted.

I could practically hear Ash’s sad little chin quiver. “Stay? Please? Please.”

I sighed before looking for a chair. “Alright, I’ll stay.” I walked over to the chair and dragged it back toward the tub.

Ash fell silent for a short while. He began to scrub with some pieces of soap that were left on the brim of the tub. His long hair, when wet, hung past his shoulders. His collar bones were way too pronounced. He was thin enough to see all too clearly the lines of each rib. I felt a strong urge to shove food down the young man’s throat.

“You seem important,” he murmured, ripping me away from my thoughts.

“I seem important?”

He nodded. “You always have somewhere else to be. Always wearin’ armor. People stare at you, an’ I don’t think they are staring at your scars.” He peered at me with big, sad puppy eyes. “You’re goin’ to have to leave again, aren’t you?”

Virald squirmed, but settled once he decided that my breast was not worth struggling for. “Yes, Ash. I’m going to leave again. With Altanir and some others. Tomorrow I’m just gonna get my journals, but the day after that I might be gone for a long time. And while I’m gone, everyone here might have to move to another location. I don’t think you have to worry, though. Marc is a smart guy. Sometimes I think he’s psychic,” I said with a laugh. “He always seems to know what word I struggle to understand, and he knows just how to explain stuff to me. You’ll be fine with him. He’s a much better teacher than me with magic, anyway.”

“We didn’t understand each other much,” he said with a frown, looking at his bruised knees. “We tried to talk while you were gone. It didn’t happen. We jus’ got frustrated an’ stopped talking.”

“You need to immerse yourself, Ash. Be around people who only speak Norren. That’s how I learned. You and your friends, you talked amongst yourselves and it got you nowhere. Trust me. This is what you need. You also need someone to help you with your magic.”

“But you have Altanir. He speaks some English.”

“Ash, I literally learned just today that Altanir knows some English. His wife was from Earth. Not sure where. Obviously somewhere they speak French, and something else. Or maybe she just knew three languages. I dunno. But I haven’t spoken English with anyone besides you before today.” Except for a few words here and there with Yrsarald, but that wasn’t worth mentioning. “You need to find yourself your own journal. There’s gotta be something around here, somewhere. If nothing else, make lists of words you learn, all the time. Every day. It helps, trust me. Eventually, you’ll learn to read and write, too.”

“Christ,” Ash blurted. “I have to learn to read.”

“It took me a while. My writing is still bad.”

As Ash scrubbed suds into his hair, he eyed my son. “So, are you an’ those two men an’ that ginger what, together or sumthin’?”

“What? No. Marc and Bird are married. We’re all family, but not like that. And the ginger is Morgana, the wetnurse.”

“The kids aren’t hers?”

“No. I… this one is mine. The girl is Marc’s and Bird’s. Morgana can thankfully feed both children.” I didn’t feel like explaining Flavia’s elaborate parentage.

“Yours, but you can’t feed ‘im?”

I shook my head. “No. My body wouldn’t let me.”

Ash ducked under the water to rinse his hair, and I deliberated explaining to Ash the supernatural reality of this world. Gods and demons. Aedra and Daedra. Werebeasts, dragons, zombies, giant spiders, and ghosts. Was he ready? How many of these fairytale creatures had he already encountered?

“Ash, are you a religious person?” It was innocent enough of a question, I figured.

“Hmm?” He laughed. “No. Never really paid any attention to things like that. Why?”

I sat back against the chair with Virald held snug against me. “Just wondering,” I lied. “So, I’m… I’m sorry, about your friends.”

Ash, frowning, nodded slowly.

“I suppose none of you showed signs of being mages until… until the attack.”

“’Mage’,” Ash repeated in a sarcastic tone. “No. Nothin’.”

“So you all just… drove your car into this world?”

“Sumthin’ like that. I don’t know. Everything just went black, an’ we woke up in a field.” He vigorously scrubbed his scraggly beard before continuing. “We thought we might’ve died, woke up in some grassy heaven. But then we saw a—what’s it called—mammoth. Nearly shat meself.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I had the same reaction, to be honest.” Ash smiled at that. “Just curious, what year was it when you left Earth?”

“Ehh, 1996.”

My breath caught a moment. “Wow. Um…”

Ash looked up. “Why? What year are you from?”

It took me a moment to remember the year in Earth terms, as opposed to the year and era in Skyrim. “2013. I… fell into a cave. A portal.” I didn’t feel like elaborating tonight.

The young man’s laughter edged on manic. “Shit. You’re from the bloody future, an’ yet here we are, in th’ past. Or sumthin’ that feels like the past.” Ash moved to the edge of the tub, close to me. “Do your journals write about all tha’ kind of stuff? Beasts an’ monsters an’ all that?”

“They do, somewhat. But I can just tell you about all the crazy things I’ve seen, if you like.”

A tentative smile crept across Ash’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fe - gross, ew, ugh


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bad day today. This has been a bad week. I'm also in severe pain due to back/hip issues that won't go away. So, in light of that, I want to post this chapter in addition to the calm, scheduled Friday chapter I posted yesterday. 
> 
> Join me, won't you?
> 
> A little mood music: play "Forgive Me" (Game of Thrones OST, Season 4) on repeat.

_Twilight. Stars twinkling. Stenvar wrapped around me.  Warm._

_The sellsword kisses my lips._

_“It is time,” he whispers._

_My eyes shoot to his. “I want to stay.”_

_Stenvar’s smile is tender, but he shakes his head slowly. “Eternity can wait.” He stands, walks behind me, and picks up my belongings that are piled on the verdant field._

_I begin to cry, and shake my head. “No.”_

_I don’t want to admit that I am hungry, and say nothing. I let Stenvar dress me in my underarmor while I cry. My leg armor are the first pieces to be put on; Stenvar kisses my knees while doing so. He then tugs on my boots. When he settles the shimmering chest and back plate onto my shoulders, he kisses the tears from my cheeks. Before he fastens my rune-trimmed hood to the back of the cuirass, he kisses the nape of my neck. As he slips on my glowing gauntlets, he kisses my palms. After he slides Dawnbreaker into her sheath and wraps my fur cloak around my shoulders, he kisses my sobbing mouth. Lastly, he places my knapsack onto my back._

_Stenvar walks around to face me. He is already wearing his armor. He shifts the hood away from my left cheek, kisses the soft flesh in front of my ear, and whispers, “Now, and forever.”_

 

My eyes opened to darkness. My ears took in the sounds of the slumbering throng. My body felt the warmth of Morgana and Ash sleeping on either side of me, and Virald on my abdomen. I felt the urge to urinate, and crept with my son in my arms to the latrines.

A dim Candlelight spell hovering over my head lit our way. Virald squirmed, displeased with the disturbance. He began to scream.

“ _Alright, bubba_ ,” I crooned in English. “ _No need for that_.” I bounced him gently in my arms as I walked.

The latrines were occupied by a few people. There was no custom that dictated how one should or should not act in these situations. It was very Roman. Piss, chat, and leave. Or sometimes chat, chat, poo, and chat some more. Initially, I hated it. I was severely aware of my toilet activities and those who could watch or hear me perform them. Thinking back to my days at the college in Winterhold, I wondered how often Onmund the Stalker, while cloaked by an invisibility spell, watched me take a shit. I shuddered at the thought.

After several years of living in Skyrim, the experience was slowly becoming less of a bother. More than not wanting people to watch or hear my bodily functions, though, I did not, under any circumstances, want to watch or hear others perform their own bodily functions. I coped by mentally singing songs to myself to distract my brain from my shy bladder and others’ gaseous eruptions. Tonight, my distraction was “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” from “The Lion King” because, apparently, that was how my brain worked. I envisioned Simba and Nala rolling around in the jungle, reunited and finally giving in to their flirtations. It reminded me of—

“ _Oh my god_.” The dream. The _dream_. What _was_ that? I had been with Stenvar. I remembered that. The sky was sparkling. Where had we been? I hadn’t had any odd, other-world dreams since the Eye of Magnus had been deactivated and turned over to the Psijic Order. I hoped nothing had disturbed the celestial relic again. The first time finding it had been enough of a trial.

No, it was just a sex dream. No big deal. I had plenty of those while pregnant, and now that I was devoid of those wild hormones, I was likely, slowly, returning back to my regular monthly schedule of hormone fluxes.

Stenvar. The last time I saw him, I had barely even looked at the man. I was ashamed, or scared, or… something. I had hidden my face, and my scars. I hadn't wanted him to fuss over me. I hadn’t wanted him to know what Yrsarald had done, or what Torug had done.

I had all but ignored my friend. He had delivered me my past, my personal treasures from Windhelm, and what did I give him in return? My back. The thought hurt, but I shook it away. The time for self-loathing was long gone. I had things to do.

The other poo-ers had ignored my nonsensical words. It was the middle of the night, anyway. Everyone was half asleep. As I was finishing, and wiping with a small cloth from my own private collection of toilet cloths, an Argonian stumbled in, smelling of something alcoholic. I recognized him from the market, but I didn’t know his name. When he whipped out his penis to urinate, I promptly left.

As I lay back down with Virald on my stomach, and as Ash and Morgana both snuggled against me, I wondered where Stenvar was, if he was alright. The man could have been anywhere, including Whiterun and Dragon Bridge. I hoped for Whiterun. The city was protected by both the Companions and what Stenvar mentioned were vampire hunters, like the Dawnguard, but independent. Selina, his lover last I knew, a skilled archer and werewolf, was in Whiterun. Stenvar was fine. Of course he was fine. Ralof, a vampire himself, was there, too, with Eyleif. All of them skilled warriors. They were all fine.

They were all fine.

“Can’t sleep?” Ash asked in a whisper.

“Hmm?” I turned my face toward Ash. “I… had a dream.”

Ash groaned. “The dream’s I’ve had here. Mad dreams. Stopped bein’ so odd some… I don’t know, six months or so ago. I was dreamin’ I was back home. Sometimes I dreamt I was really old, like, mean old grump with a cane an’ all that. An’ in another dream I was married an’ I was a lawyer or sumthin’.”

I nodded in understanding. “There was… something happening, here, until a little less than a year ago. I had strange dreams, too. Many people did. We… my friends and I fixed it. I haven’t had a crazy future dream since then.” _Until now_.

“So, you’re like, some kind of warrior woman or sumthin’?”

I chuckled under my breath. “Or something.”

“Is tha’ what happened to your face? Fighting vamps an’ stuff? You weren’t scarred before.”

I forced my way through a half-smile, and decided to be blunt with the young man. “A vampire orc breathed fire at my face, and then my werebear fiancé was bitten by a vampire, went rabid, killed a lot of people and then tried to kill me.” I turned away, looking toward the ceiling again. “So, yeah. Fighting vamps and stuff.”

Ash didn’t say another word.

. . . . . .

“The dragon spell found horses all the way from underground?” Thrynn asked.

“They’re called Shouts,” I answered, “and, yes. Four horses are north of the city, not far.”

“And vampires?” the large, smelly, ex-thief-turned-pimp asked.

“No vampires.”

“You’re sure?”

“There are four horses, seven rabbits, more than twenty birds, and many mice and insects above ground. No people, alive or unalive. I will use the Shout as often as I can, Thrynn, but these vampires are fast. Just assume they are always coming, and that they are very interested in your blood.”

“No fish?” Altanir asked.

“No fish,” I confirmed.

“Or deer,” Neriwen assumed.

“No deer.”

Exiting the underground city to see red was disorienting. I had expected one of Riften’s typical clear blue skies with a few puffs of clouds. No such luck.

“ _Laas_ ,” I whispered again, letting my inner dragon tell me what creatures surrounded us. There was no change.

“Alright,” I addressed the small group quietly as I walked toward the thoroughfare that led to the main city gate, “remember, stay together. And no yelling, not even if you see a vampire. Do not hesitate to k—”

I stopped short when I saw the smoke, and held my hand out behind me signaling the others to halt. The atmosphere hushed, and all I heard was the gentle splashing of the lake water below us. Rounding the corner of a building, I did not see the wooden walkways and shacks that were expected, nor the kiosks of the marketplace or the prominent tavern I had never ventured into. The neighborhood I had called home for half a year was flattened, black. Burnt stones and piles of rubble were all that remained.

“ _No!_ ” I whispered, and darted ahead of the group, disobeying my own orders. Altanir called after me, but the Shout that passed over my lips drowned out the rest of his words.

Dragon magic sent me flying over the gap where a wooden bridge once crossed. When my feet hit the ground I ran and kept running, ignoring the crunch of ashen remains under my boots.

_It will be there. It will all still be there._

The market district looked everything like a ruin and nothing like I remembered it. I no longer had any landmarks. Every space looked the same.

_Where are you? Don’t do this to me!_

Think. Think.

_Clear-Seeing!_ I cast the spell, thinking of my goal, and the faint blue glowing cloud led me on a bee-line course. I did not think about whose bedroom I walked across or whose burnt ribs I stomped. They didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. I had to get to my home.

The path-finding magic ended where the lake scenery finally looked familiar. The balcony had vanished, but the house itself was not completely burnt to the ground. Neither were the neighboring houses. I thanked the dampness for that.

Leaping over the knee-high stone wall foundations, I flew toward my makeshift bedroom. Nothing looked familiar.

“Where—” I looked around the ground, frantic and kicking debris “—where are you!?”

I fell to my knees and shoved burnt wooden roofing tiles and charred textiles off to the side. Everything was still warm. The fire happened overnight, or immediately after we fled underground. “You’re here. You have to be here. You’re right here.”

“Deborah! What are you doing!?”

“I need them!” I cried, answering Altanir while digging with my gloved hands.

“Stop. Stop!”

I jumped when a hand grabbed my wrist. Flashing angry grey eyes caught my attention.

“We cannot worry about this! I’m sorry, but we must find the—”

“No!” I cried, sniffling through oncoming tears. I jerked away from the man’s grasp. “It’s here. They’re here, somewhere.” The tiles and clothing and leaves and wooden planks had buried the trunk. It was here. It had to be here.

_A book!_ Burnt but legible, it was the book Stenvar had given me, a collection of songs. But this book had not been in my trunk.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Thrynn asked as he held up a charred but shining silver necklace.

I stood to take from him what I quickly recognized as Wuunferth’s necklace. Lately I only wore the amulet of Mara, and Wuunferth’s necklace had been stored in my trunk. My trunk was here, but where? Burnt? Crushed?

“No,” I answered, “but… where did you find it?”

Thrynn pointed with his boot to an area at his side. There, under more debris, all I found were burnt pieces of paper and more clothing, and lots of wood and charcoal. The remains of my trunk.

One of the charred papers was a sketch of my planned wedding dress. I stared at the image momentarily before tucking it into Stenvar’s song book.

“What are you looking for, exactly?” Altanir asked.

“Here’s something,” I heard Neriwen say, followed by a chuckle. “Nice.”

“Ha, wow,” Thrynn muttered. “Hey, uh, _Ki-Dibella_ , is this what you’re looking for?”

I looked up, and the sooty, smoky air dried my widened, hopeful eyes. When I looked upon Thrynn’s hand, expecting a journal or robe or anything I had kept in my trunk, all I saw was a thick stone phallus.

Pain wrenched my gut and I keeled forward, surrendering to the loss. All I had wanted were my journals, my letters to and from Yrsarald, and my enchanted mage’s robe. All of it had been kept in my trunk. The trunk was destroyed.

All of it, gone. Everything, gone. My past was literally in ashes. I was finished. I was empty. I was nothing.

Everyone was silent until Thrynn and Neriwen started sniggering.

“Give me that!” Altanir spat. “Get out. Go!” His voice was harsh, but quiet.

Hands alighted upon my shoulders. “Come on. We have to go.”

“Everything,” I sobbed. “Everything. I-I am… it’s….”

“I know. Come on.” Altanir hoisted me to my feet. “Nothing to do about it, now.”

The man discreetly deposited the phallus inside my small knapsack. “I assume that was yours, yes? If not, then this is a rather strange find.”

I didn’t answer.

“Are the horses still north?”

I remained silent. We walked somewhere for a time. Thrynn and Neriwen kept quiet.

“Deborah.” A rough hand turned my body and gained my attention. “Track the horses.”

Altanir’s angry gaze won my compliance. Staring at him, I muttered the life-seeking Shout.

“North,” I confirmed, voice catching on a sob.

“Come on, then,” the man urged. “North. Horses. Future of two hundred people in our hands.”

“Future,” I repeated.

. . . . . .

Exiting the city, I tried not to look at what must have been dozens of bodies lining the way. I did my best to ignore the squeaks of rats and birds that dined upon the carrion. The smell, however, was unavoidable. It seemed attempts had been made to pile bodies from previous attacks into carts. Perhaps some had been interred or burned as intended, but these people never had that privilege.

Nausea and rage mixed with sympathy when I saw Altanir gag several times before retching over a railing. If I had to cover my nose and mouth to avoid vomiting, I was surprised he was still standing. Neriwen waited for him to finish before offering him a rag to tie around the lower half of his face. It didn’t seem to help.

I was thankful, however, that the dead did not appear to be rising, either as vampire or zombie. The civil war was still on hold and therefore Arkay was no longer angry, and the Eye of Magnus was no longer screwing with Aetherial balance. Alduin may have been munching on souls in the afterlife, but at least I didn’t have to worry about walking corpses.

Though mostly I looked to my feet as we walked, I did notice a worrying lack of bodies. Two hundred people safe in the Ratways. Others were perhaps elsewhere. Maybe a hundred dead littering the city, and perhaps more burnt or interred. I didn’t know exactly how many citizens lived in the cities of Skyrim, but the numbers were definitely in the thousands.

I hoped that the missing people were alive, and safe.

I hoped.

 

The stables were largely intact, untouched by fire or other destructive forces. I spotted two horse carts, and inside a storage area we found three hand carts of varying sizes. We also found three dead stablehands, two mutilated horses, and one foal so badly wounded we had no choice but to kill it.

“Why would they attack the horses?” Thrynn asked.

“Same reason they killed the deer, I suppose,” answered Neriwen.

My dragon sense felt the faint echo of the vampires’ presence. It was an aura of evil, and awoke within me stirrings of barely-bridled rage.

“They must have tried to burn the city,” said Altanir. “Unless you think a dragon did this?” he asked me.

I waited for my sixth sense to confirm or deny. “No, I don’t think it was a dragon.”

“The market looks like it got the worst of it,” Thrynn noted. “Maybe it started there.” He shrugged. “Maybe an accident? From the forge?”

“No, not an accident,” Altanir asserted. “Riften is too damp for a fire to catch well. Maybe… fireballs. Strong fire magic could have done this, easily.”

He was right. Fire was never my element, but other mages such as J’zargo and Brelyna could cast fireballs as strong as my lightning orbs, capable of exploding nearly anything.

“Or a rune spell,” I added, recalling the terror strong rune spells could wreak. “But… a rune has to be… something has to make it explode. So… yes. Fireballs. They did this. They did this.”

“Angry that everyone had left, perhaps?” Thrynn asked.

No one answered.

“Are the horses still north?” Altanir asked me.

They were. “Yes.”

Altanir nodded. “Alright. Onward, then.”

 

The morning mist filling the forest north of Riften should have been refreshing, blissful, with just a hint of primeval mystery. I used to glimpse the beautiful, motley forest from the city. Instead of a contrast of yellow and orange against bright blue, we treaded through a dangerously dim nightmare scape. Nothing had changed in three weeks. The sky was dark grey with a bright ring of red where the sun should have been. Swirls of red and orange clouds haloed Magnus’s hole in the canopy, and if you stared long enough into the ghostly eye, it stared right back.

My nerves were on edge, ready and waiting for anything to leap out at us. But nothing but a few birds were near, this I knew. I only hoped my Shouts weren’t lying to me, that they were working properly, not disrupted by the cursed sky.

. . . . . .

The horses were exactly where I thought they would be, only there weren’t four, but five: four adults and a foal. The animals were in a valley past the rocky ridge where Neriwen and I now stood. From this vantage point I could see a large expanse, and I scanned for life with the silent Shout. Neriwen, rather, scoped the valley with her own eyes and spotted the horses before I had.

“I have the eyes of a hunter,” she said, “no more, no less.”

As we neared the horses, I held between my palms a calming spell taught to me by Marcurio. I did know a Shout, learned and mastered during my time at High Hrothgar that could calm an animal, but as quiet as the dragon magic was in my ears, it created rumbles of preternatural thunder. I didn’t want to bring that kind of attention to myself, more than I might have already.

One of the horses saw us and raised its head, only to resume grazing. Its ears spun toward us, though.

“Ready your ropes,” Altanir whispered.

The two men flanked the small herd, one deliberate step at a time. Neriwen readied her lasso, too, while I readied calming magic.

The foal had been ignoring us completely, happily nursing at his palomino mother’s teat. These horses must have been comfortable around humans. I wondered if their owners were still living.

I was saddened when I did not recognize either of the two brown horses as Ingjard’s chubby Potato. A brief glance proved that all four adult horses were mares, while the foal, with a pretty, creamy roan coat, was male.

The palomino and her grey-coated neighbor didn’t care that we were edging closer. The colt broke away from his mother and pranced around to her other side. The palomino stopped grazing to eye Neriwen and me. She nickered, and blinked.

Neriwen crooned some unintelligible words to the animals. My peripheral vision saw that Thrynn had successfully, gently, lassoed one of the brown mares.  

“I have the grey one,” Neriwen announced in a whisper, and broke off somewhat to the right.

I neared the palomino, which continued to watch me but showed no sign of unease. I let the calming spell I had been holding dissipate, and readied my lasso.

The palomino shifted, aligning the front of her body with mine. She again nickered, and bowed her head twice. Her colt scampered away, deciding that hiding behind a different mare was a safer option. The palomino pivoted again, angled enough to eye me easily. Her tail was held high and still, as if she was about to poop, but no poop dropped. She exhaled through her nose in a sort of reverse snort, and then began a slow approach towards me.

Neriwen chuckled, and muttered her surprise.

Lasso long forgotten in my one hand, I held out the other as a welcoming gesture to the horse which seemed happy to see me. The mare’s snout quickly found its way to my palm and was soon pressed against it.

“I thought you weren’t going to use any Shouts,” Altanir said as he approached with a horse on a rope lead.

“What?” I asked, glancing his way. “No, I didn’t—I don’t know why….”

The palomino took another step toward me and rested her neck on my shoulder. I instinctively wrapped an arm around her neck, and rubbed.

Altanir took the lasso from me. “You shouldn’t let her do that.” He roped the lasso around the mare’s neck. “You do not know this horse. She may want to bite your ears off.”

I gave him a disapproving look, which he missed. “I didn’t sense any—anything like that from her. She probably just misses people.”

“The _hast_ might be a problem,” said Neriwen.

Altanir grunted in agreement. “Too young to wean.”

“Can we worry about the _hast_ later, please?” Thrynn asked, clearly ill at ease. “Let’s go back.”

Neriwen made the Norren equivalent of the sound ‘aww’, which was more open and started with a ‘gn’. “Thrynn’s scared,” she then said. “Let’s get him back underground, where he belongs.”

The palomino snorted, and once again placed her neck on my shoulder. I turned to Altanir with an unexpected and unavoidable smile on my face. “I don’t know what to tell you. Apparently she likes me.”

Altanir, expressionless, reached down, grabbed my hand, and placed it on the lasso’s lead. “Come on.”

“The golden one has a big mark,” Thrynn said about the palomino. “Looks like a scar more than an owner’s mark.”

“A scar?” A distant memory resurfaced.

“Yeah,” he said as he neared, brown horse in tow. “Big burn or something on her butt.”

“On her butt!?” _Was it? No, it couldn’t be._

Thrynn’s brow furrowed as he passed, following Altanir and Neriwen who were well ahead.

I dropped the palomino’s lead and ran to her right flank. When I saw the scar, I froze.

“Oh, gods. It’s…” I reached out to the big ugly burn in the shape of a slanted star that decorated her upper hindquarter. I had seen this scar before, many times.

_We were runnin’ from some angry orcs in Falkreath. One of them had flaming arrows. Asshole. Scared the shit outta me. Thought my girl was gonna have to be put down after that, but she was fine. Just a little uglier, like me_.

I darted back to the horse’s front, standing at her side so she could see me. She blinked, and her muzzle butted gently against my abdomen. I laid a palm on her forehead, and the other on her neck. She made a deep sighing sound.

“H-honey,” I whispered, voice trembling. “Honey, is it you?”

The mare nickered. The colt peeked at me from behind her.

As if the horse could understand, as if she could answer me, I asked her the question that had to be asked. “Where is he?” Gulping, I stroked her forelock. “Where is Stenvar?”

“Deborah, come _on_.” Altanir’s threatening whisper-shout shook me out of my pending sobs.

I nodded to myself and grasped the rope lead, and headed toward Altanir and the others. As we walked, I spoke to the mare beside me.

“It’s you. I know it’s you. It has to be. Did you recognize me?”

Honey said nothing, but pivoted her ears a bit.

“Where’s Stenvar?” I asked her, and myself. He would never just abandon his beloved mare. Had she run away? Had she become overwhelmed by a certain need and found herself a handsome stallion?

She wore no tack at all, so she must have fled from a stable or pasture. Had Stenvar been in Riften!?

The thought stole my breath. I keeled forward, but was caught by my grip on Honey’s lead. The colt squealed, but the mare remained calm. I forced myself to keep moving; I didn’t want to lose sight of the others.

_Just keep moving. Keep walking. Stenvar’s fine. He’s fine somewhere, probably Whiterun with Selina, drinking the taverns dry. Honey just caught the scent of a stallion and eloped. That’s all. Stenvar’s fine._

The longer we walked, the less I believed myself. Why would a horse travel to another Hold? Didn’t horses tend to stay within a certain territory?

_Cast the locator spell. No! A vampire might see it. But if they see the spell, they likely see you, anyway. Can vampires sense magic?_

The dream. The dream! Stenvar and I, in an odd place where I could not stay. I had been wearing my armor that had been destroyed by Torug, so it could not have been a premonition. But it could have been a dream of another dimension where that armor was still intact.

Against my better judgment, I decided to cast the spell of Clear-Seeing.

“Just point in a direction,” I ordered the pre-cast magic. “Any direction. Tell me he’s _somewhere_.”

Magical powers were limited and weak due to the clouded sky, but unless Stenvar was far, far away, the spell would act the compass and point toward his location.

The spell was cast. It showed nothing.

I wept silently the rest of the way back to the city.

. . . . . .

Neriwen and Altanir, who knew the intended location of the temporary corral, led the horses down the ramp into the underground city. Afterward, we were to go back out and collect the carts.

As we walked, I could feel the crowd’s collective gaze on me. I could feel them judging, blaming me for the continued darkened sky, and the deaths. I should have fixed it all by now, should have Shouted the sky blue. They didn’t know that I had already tried that Shout.

They didn’t know, yet, about the city fire. Perhaps it was better that way. One less thing for everyone to hate me for.

The need for Yrsarald’s supportive and calming embrace was growing stronger. I tried to pretend he was here with me, but my imagination was clogged by razed houses, destroyed journals, rotting corpse piles, the unknown welfare of friends, and the constant, _constant_ drone of Meridia’s desires.

“I can’t,” I murmured. “I can’t do this, I can’t.”

Thrynn, walking ahead of me, turned back. “What’s goin’ on?”

Honey whinnied. My fingers flared, and her lead dropped. She kept moving forward, following her small herd.

My body froze, and I fell back against the cold, damp corridor wall.

“Gone,” I muttered. “Gone.” I pounded the back of my head and my right fist against the stone. “Gone.” Pound. “Gone.” Pound. “Gone!” Pound, pound, pound, _pound!_ I turned around and punched the wall. “Why!?” Again. Again. The jagged slate surface scraped my gloves. “Why him? Why this!?” Sobs quickly swallowed the rest of my words. I attacked the wall with both hands. I felt the sting of damaged nerves when the leather over a knuckle tore away.

“Hey, stop that!” Thrynn scrambled over to me. “Sweet Mara’s love, woman,” he said as he grabbed me. “I swear to Shor.” His hands were grasping both my wrists as he pulled me away from the wall. He stood still a moment, grumbled, and then led me in the opposite direction of the horses. “Your family’s this way, right?” he asked without receiving an answer. “Whatever. We’ll find them. Fuck, why would you do that?”

We must have passed many people. I didn’t feel their gazes, anymore. I was too lost in the pain. Perhaps that was the point.

“You’ll be lucky to hold a sword,” Thrynn warned. “Altanir’s gonna be so fucking angry. He wanted to leave tomorrow. You knew that. At least that Imperial friend of yours is a mage, too, right?”

Finally arriving at my family’s area, Thrynn ungraciously handed me over to Bird, who called over to Marcurio. Ash leapt up at my arrival, excitedly inquiring about something until Marcurio stepped in front of him. Lecturing words were spoken by my friends, but I registered none of them. I was sat down, and Marcurio poked and prodded my fingers. Eventually, I felt the warmth of healing magic.

“Is she gonna be alright?” I heard Thrynn ask.

“Nothing was broken,” Marcurio answered. “Not this time.”

“This time?” Thrynn repeated, but received no clarification.

I was given some lukewarm tea. I was reminded how to drink it.

“Deb,” Thrynn called quietly, using my real name for a change.

_You’re still here. Why are you still here?_

“I-I need to talk to you,” he continued, “about what you said—“

“You should go,” interrupted Marcurio. His tone was dour.

“But I need to—“

“Go,” my friend repeated.

And then, aside from the usual noises, the world fell silent, and I was able to weep in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ki - not  
> hast - colt


	7. Chapter 7

“I cannot understand why you would do this to yourself,” Altanir grumbled as he inspected my hands, not trusting Marcurio’s word that I was fine.

Neither of them knew that my right hand ached, badly. Not wanting to waste my magic reserves or potions, I simply endured.

“You are the only person Dawnbreaker responds to,” the man continued. “And with magic weakened, you will need a sword. Have you tried to hold it?”

I shook my head.

Altanir knelt to the floor and withdrew the weapon from its sheath. He laid the blade on his palms and offered Dawnbreaker to me. “Go on,” he said, “I need to see that you can use it, or our plans will have to change.”

After Yrsarald’s death, I had not practiced weapons or Shouts, nor any sort of skill. It had been enough of a struggle to simply exist. The strength I had built thanks to Ingjard’s training had waned, and I was now a much weaker version of my previous self. After the vampires first attacked and I picked up Dawnbreaker for the first time in half a year, my underworked hand was thankfully guided by Meridia during what Marcurio thought was a possession by the goddess.

Still, tired and weak as I was, I grasped the hilt and bore the weight. My muscles reacted, and did not protest. My body knew its duty, what it was built for. The magic of the weapon compensated for my ineptness. For anyone else, the metal was as heavy as an orcish two-handed sword, or so I was told. My right hand ached, but envisioning the blade covered with vampire blood served as encouragement.

“Swing it,” Altanir ordered.

I shot him an unmet glare but did what he asked, maneuvering in the manner Ingjard had taught me, and what Stenvar had once tried to teach me. I then swung the sword, slowly, towards Altanir’s shoulder, stopping just short before lowering the weapon.

“I’m fine, Altanir. We can still leave tomorrow.”

The man nodded, and spotted Marcurio. He tipped his head sideways toward the man. “And your friends, they are fine with you leaving? They will care for your son?”

I turned and watched Marcurio as he chatted with Morgana and played a hand-clapping game with Flavia. Bird, on the floor behind them, was napping with Virald on his abdomen. They were happy, the five of them. Morgana was a good fit. I was a wholly unnecessary component of the family.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “They’re fine.”

 

I didn’t have much to pack. Anuriel allotted us enough food for the trip to and from Fort Dawnguard, so the majority of my knapsack was bread, apples, hard cheese, dried fruit, some sort of jerky, and dried fish. Travel food. Salty food. I packed two canteens. Anuriel also let us take whatever tack we needed for the horses, which thankfully there was a lot of still in the stables and stored underground.

My armor I would wear for the duration of the journey, and one set of simple linen bedclothes, a change of underwear and socks, and a wad of clean rags would have to do for extra belongings. I also packed a week’s worth of menstrual cottons, just in case my body chemistry returned to normal. The bag had more room in it with no journal. I did pack an ink bottle and quill, though, and a few potions.

A second, spare knapsack was given to me by Thrynn, who was to accompany Altanir and me. Neriwen was our fourth. Originally, the elf was to stay with the people underground, to hunt for them occasionally. But other survivors had come forward to Anuriel, announcing that they were hunters, and they offered their aid. Altanir saw the opportunity to take Neriwen with us, and could not pass. The two trusted each other, more than either of them trusted Thrynn. Why Altanir wanted to bring Thrynn at all was a mystery to me, but I didn’t care enough to ask. The brute was added muscle; I couldn’t say no to that.

The plan was this: leave at dawn, ride the two days to the fort, seek out aid and escorts for the people of Riften, and then either move on from there or return to the city. The latter aspect of the plan we would not decide until we learned more about what was happening with Torug and the vampires. It was entirely possible we would learn nothing. It was also possible we would have to travel far and fast, and therefore we would say our goodbyes tonight.

“And make sure you say goodbye to the kid,” Bird said, referring to Ash and not, in fact, the babies or Morgana, who herself was in her twenties. “He knows you’re leaving,” he continued. “Even unable to speak with us, I can tell he’s miserable.”

I smiled at my friend and patted his shoulder. “He’ll be alright. He’ll learn. He has to. Make sure Marc helps him, but… not too nice, not too mean, you know?”

Bird grinned his fish-hook grin that I never tired of seeing. “Yeah. I understand.”

As we hugged, I fought back tears by biting my tongue. The brain focused on a different pain. “And you need to protect Virald,” I rasped. “Protect him. You need to _protect_ him, Bird. You need to—“

“I know, Deb. I know.” Bird’s hand swept up and down my back as I held him tighter.

“He’s all that is left of him.”

“Hey,” Bird said as he peeled away, “that isn’t true. You have the amulet and ring, right?”

I frowned at the man. “That isn’t—“

“I know. Not the same. I know.” Bird rubbed my shoulders and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “He’s family,” he continued. “He’ll be fine. We will all be fine.”

I nodded, and kept nodding as the nerves failed to dissipate. Bird smiled, and took my hand to lead me to the others. Marcurio and Flavia waved to me, surely an attempt to cheer me up. All it did was break my heart.

Morgana placed the sleeping Virald in my arms. “My milk’s still comin’ in fine,” she said. “I thought you should know. We’ll be alright.” She leaned down to the boy. “Won’t we, Viri?” She booped his nose with her fingertip. “Sorry he’s sleepin’. But, you know what ‘appens when we wake ‘im.”

I smiled at the young woman. “It’s fine.” _It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine._

I never told Marcurio, Bird, and Morgana what happened to their home. Our home. I lied, claiming only that some things were stolen, including my trunk. Looting they expected. They could handle looting. Devastation, however, was news I was not prepared to deliver. Ash was severely disappointed at the lack of promised literary aid. He had, however, quickly built a rapport with Flavia, who was very interested in his beard. The non-verbal playtime was a welcome distraction for the lonely man. I was glad for them.

I stood still, gazing down at mini-Yrsarald, wondering if the tufts of red hair would remain or if he would evolve into a brunette. I wondered if he would freckle as his father had. I wondered if he would be a mage, or rather like Altanir. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. I wondered if I would have the privilege to watch him grow.

Something inside my mind clicked. As I considered all of the milestones I might miss, all of the futures my failure might steal from this infant and other children, I witnessed the change. Fear, of failure and of the undead, shifted to fortitude. Doubt dwindled, and was replaced by determination. Weariness, however thorough, gave way to a deep, potent wrath.

Certainly these feelings had been stewing within me for some time, but on the eve of leaving behind my family – my _son_ – with the very real possibility of never seeing them again, I felt the sting of reality.

I looked up and saw Ash glowering at me from his seat next to Marcurio. Strange for a man feeling isolated and homesick to avoid speaking with me tonight. He knew I was leaving, and I knew how he felt about it. He understood why he couldn’t come along; he was terrified to go outside, anyway. I had tried to quell his anger with the gift of Wuunferth’s enchanted necklace. I had explained the item’s sentimental value, and what it did, what enchantments were. The young man had pretended not to care.

Morgana and I walked back to our area, and I sat next to Marcurio and Flavia. With Virald cradled in one arm, I reached out to my mage friend with my free hand. Wordless in his effort to comfort me, as well as himself, he returned my grasp and raised the back of my hand to his lips.

There was nothing left to say between Marcurio and me. We had already said our goodbyes. Any more words would have led to even more tears, and I was tired of crying.

. . . . . .

Dawn came, though this only meant that the sky was a dark red-grey as opposed to completely black. The bleeding, cloud-haloed sun hovered low behind the eastern mountains, providing very little light. But Altanir new the way well enough and Neriwen claimed to have excellent night vision, so torches, they warned, were unnecessary dangers.

“It is a shame J’zargo did not want to come,” I mentioned quietly to Altanir. “Khajiit see well in the dark, he says. Better than any elf, I suppose.”

“I heard that,” Neriwen murmured.

“I did not mean—” I sighed, frustrated. “I only meant he can probably see better than anyone not Khajiit.”

“She knows what you meant,” Altanir assured me. “Neriwen is just trying to see how far she can push you.”

“Heard that, too,” the Bosmer noted.

Altanir laughed. “Of course you did, my darling. Hard not to with those big, lovely—”

“Don’t you start,” Neriwen grumbled as she kicked her horse past Altanir’s, offering the man a three-fingered salute that was Skyrim’s version of the “fuck you” hand gesture.

I was terribly confused. Turning to Altanir, I whispered, “I thought you two, you know, liked each other. You’re friends?”

The man chuckled. “Of course we are. For many years, now.”

I stared at the man. “But, to tease her about, you know, elf things….” To my knowledge, Stenvar had never once teased Jenassa about being an elf, or her elven qualities. He teased in general, certainly, but never about physical traits. Except, of course, that one time he called me squishy. Looking back, however, I realized this was a complement. Wanting to avoid tears, I shoved thoughts of my sellsword friend to the back of my mind.

“Teasing?” Altanir clicked his tongue. “This is a sign of affection, particularly between Children of the Underground. If we do not like someone, we simply ignore them.”

“Or steal from them,” Thrynn added, his horse closing in behind us. He jutted his chin at Altanir. “Hey, can you give us a moment? I have some things I need to say to Deborah.”

I turned away from the man and squeezed shut my eyes, wishing Thrynn would just leave me alone.

Unfortunately, Altanir either failed to see my displeasure, or granted Thrynn’s wish anyhow. “Of course,” the man said in a cheery tone before he tapped his horse’s flank and trotted ahead. I imagined he was grinning at himself. “Don’t distract her for too long, though,” he warned from ahead. “And keep using that Shout,” he added to me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I answered before whispering, “ _laas_.” The forest adjacent to the road was nearly devoid of life, with only a few birds and smaller creatures sensed by the Shout.

To my surprise and delight, Thrynn said nothing. Our horses’ hoof beats, the rustling leaves, and the occasional bird song made for a comforting ambience. To distract my mind from whatever Thrynn was about to tell me, and from any other thought my brain might dredge up, I began to braid Honey’s mane. The hairs were long but stiff, and without some sort of binding, the braids always fell apart. It was no bother. I just repeated the motion, content in the unending task.

“I didn’t let them rape you,” was the first thing Thrynn said to me.

For a moment, my hands stilled. I whispered “ _laas_ ” again, and set upon another clump of Honey’s hair.

“They knew,” he continued. “They knew I hadn’t... I hadn’t fully claimed you. That’s how it was, in that band. I didn’t like it. I never claimed a woman like that. Not all of us did. I only fucked women who wanted to fuck me. But Garthek, and most others....” The man sighed, deeply. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “If I hadn’t claimed you, Garthek would have. And he would’ve broken you like all the others.”

 _Others?_ Just how many other women experienced what I had? Or worse? Had Siv been ‘claimed’ too?

“So,” he continued, “I claimed my first woman. You. I liked the look of you, anyway. Wouldn’t’ve been so bad.” He sighed again. “I had to… keep you, tie you up. You know, a prisoner. It’s what you were, until I could break you. I had to make them think I broke you.”

I heard him shift in his saddle. I kept my eyes on Honey’s mane.

“I thought you understood,” he said, “that night when I tried to tell you, to explain to you how it worked. You stay by my side, or Garthek will hurt you. I thought you understood. I guess I was wrong. And then, I swear to all the gods I heard you say your name was Dibella. I heard you say it; I know I did. It’s different from Deborah. Similar, but…. I’m an idiot for thinking you were her. I mean, it could happen. People say the Daedra can show up on Nirn, so why not Aedra? I-I just, I dunno. I suppose I wanted to believe. And I didn’t wanna risk it. If you were Dibella, in the flesh? I’d forced you to piss with your hands tied. I’d seen your—your everything. I wanted….”

Thrynn fell silent. I whispered, “ _Laas_.” No change. _No, wait. A fox. And it’s chasing a rabbit._

“But you ran.” He was barely audible. “You showed them I didn’t break you. You weren’t mine. And worse, I thought, in that moment, that you were Dibella. I didn’t want to chase you and bind you. You were a goddess; how could I? But they didn’t listen. They saw it as a hunt, a game. And then they downed a troll when they found you. Got their blood even hotter.

“I tried to stop them. I told them who you were. What you were. They laughed. Then I told them you were mine. They laughed. I tried to pull them away from you, and so did Siv. She was just shoved away. She couldn’t do much, or she would’ve been— _mmph_. I told her to leave. But I kept at it, for as long as I could. They kicked me in my ribs, after that. Broke a few. I couldn’t shout for you, anymore.

“But then you, you exploded with light. Lightning magic. Never seen anything like it, even from the mages in the band. The two men holding you were hit hard by the shock. One of them, his back hit a tree. If the magic didn’t kill him, that would have. The other guy was sort of alive, after that, but died the next day. The man who… the one behind you, you shot him with magic, right in the heart. He died, too. A few others got some bad burns before you stopped. I shouted—tried to shout—for you to stop. Gods, you should’ve seen your eyes. White, like the lightning you shot out.” One of the mares ahead of us snorted. “From what I hear… that wasn’t the last time your eyes went white. It’s kind of a legend, now, what happened at Riften. Three times.”

I realized I had stopped braiding Honey’s mane. “ _Laas yah nir_.” No more rabbit, but several additional foxes. Young ones. Some birds were waiting for the foxes to leave.

“After that,” Thrynn continued, “no one touched you. Garthek wanted to kill you, but I convinced him not to. I still thought you might be Dibella. Others did, too. So, you lived. You were lucky. Siv and I, and some others, we watched you, protected you. I didn’t sleep much, during that time. A lot of swords were pointed at my back. But, then we kissed. People saw. So they assumed I’d finally, properly claimed you. They backed off, after that. We were safe. Sort of. And, alright, I admit that I wanted you. But I wouldn’t touch you. I couldn’t. You said that you weren’t Dibella, but I still—I couldn’t stop thinking that way. I guess a part of me knew you were special, somehow better than the rest of us. Guess I was right.

“Then the fucking Pale happened. Garthek was so fucking angry, at me, at _you_. We weren’t supposed to kill the women and children. That wasn’t how it worked. But his blood was hot and he just—”

I heard the hard creak of leather and imagined Thrynn was squeezing the reins or some other leather object, venting his frustration.

“What he fucking did to you, I-I…. I don’t like to think about it, but it could have ended a lot worse than it did. Where he pointed his sword—”

“Stop,” I rasped.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice catching on a sob. “You’re right. You’re fucking right. You deserved better than what you got, your introduction to this life. I’m sorry it was me, that it was us, that it wasn’t some farmer who coulda fed you soup and given you a bed and not been forced to treat you like a fucking slave.”

Thrynn went quiet. It was all too quiet. “ _Laas_.”

“And I left,” he eventually said, “I left the cabin ‘cause I had to. You were fine. You had a map, and crap to sell for food. You were speaking the language! I thought you’d be fine. I… I had to leave because I couldn’t fucking face you. Just being around you, just sitting there, I felt so fucking worthless next to you. Yeah, you let me fuck you; whatever. Doesn’t mean I’m a good person. So I left. And I took the horse because my foot was hurting. Something was broken, I guess. It’s still hurting. Never healed properly. Aside from those healed cuts, your legs were fine. I guess I didn’t think fucking Imperials would fucking capture you.”

He was growing angrier, speaking louder, cursing. He really was upset with himself.

“I am sorry I made you pregnant, though,” he muttered. “Guess you lost the baby? You said you bled. That’s… it happens, I guess. I shoulda pulled out more often. One more thing to feel sorry for.”

Thrynn stopped talking again, and remained quiet. A whispered Shout only filled in the silence temporarily. I felt an urge to speak, but I had no idea what to say. I was frozen by conflicting emotions.

So, lacking words, I shifted my eyes from Honey’s mane and glanced at the man beside me. He rode one of the brown mares, a short but stocky creature even compared to the other short and stocky horses of this land. The mare reminded me of Potato.

Thrynn must have felt my gaze, because we then shared an unspoken emotion. In his eyes, I could see the sorrow and regret he avowed, and I wondered if he could see the same in mine. I still hated the man, this would likely never truly change. But in that moment, I hated him a little less. I even somewhat regretted punching him.

. . . . . .

“It’s quieter than I thought it would be.” Altanir was picking at his traveler’s cake, eating his dinner slowly during our turn at night watch.

No campfire was lit for safety reasons, but we had two small lanterns. My concern about keeping any passing wolves at bay with a campfire was quickly replaced with concern about a campfire attracting vampires. We didn’t need the heat, anyway, this being Sun’s Height, the equivalent of July in the northern hemisphere. In the south of Skyrim, I learned, this meant higher temperatures, higher humidity, and more flies. With the sky clouded, however, the days were roughly the same temperature as the nights. I felt slightly warm in my leather armor, but was not sweating.

“What ‘noise’ did you think we would hear?” I asked the man.

“Mm. Well, vampires. Bandits? Outlaws like to make coin from the suffering of others.”

“I think between you and me, we will sense bandits coming. I am not worried about bandits. I have _known_ bandits. They cannot hurt me, anymore.”

Altanir fell quiet, nibbling his meal.

Twigs snapped to my right, but it was just the colt, nudging his way to his mother’s milk.

“Who is Stenvar?” I heard Altanir ask.

Now it was my turn to play with my food. I picked off a corner of the bland, grainy cake and tried to squish the dry sponge between my fingers, but it just crumbled.

“A friend,” was my answer.

“Ha, I never would have guessed _that_.” I turned to Altanir. He was watching the horses.

I sighed. “He is… a sellsword. And thane of Winterhold. I met him in Windhelm, when I was new to the city. He was— _is—_ a good friend. I haven’t seen him in… a while. He brought the trunks for me, from Windhelm. They… that was what I was looking for. Everything was in them. Everything. My journals, letters from Yrsa—things. All that work, all….” My gut wrenched. “The journals would have helped Ash. Now, he has to do the same, only he won’t have help from the gods to learn this language.”

“Help from the gods?”

I nodded.

Altanir gave a light grunt. “The golden mare, she was Stenvar’s?”

“She _is_ Stenvar’s,” I corrected.

“Was he in Riften?”

“I don’t know.”

“An’ you’re certain the mare is his ‘Honey’.”

“Yes,” I answered through gritted teeth.

Rustling thankfully interrupted our conversation. Neriwen stood from her bedroll and strolled a short distance from the sleeping area, away from the horses, probably looking for somewhere to squat. I looked away, but when I heard the unmistakable sound of someone urinating on plants from a height, I turned back. Neriwen was peeing, but doing so standing up. Out of politeness, I looked away again, and allowed my tired brain a moment to process this new information.

“My horse was at the stables,” Altanir said.

 _What!?_ I turned to him, shocked he had not said so earlier. The horses still at the Riften stables had been slaughtered and left to rot. We decided not to burn them only because a fire that big would have attracted unwanted attention.

“Your horse was there? Killed?”

He nodded.

 _Ugh_. I felt awful. Altanir must have completely internalized whatever pain seeing his horse like that must have caused him. “You—you said nothing, before. I’m… I’m sorry.”

The man just shrugged.

“Did it have a name?”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Ayiti, after Nadège’s land.”

Land? Country, perhaps. _Eyee-tea. Eyee-tea_. “That’s the name of her country? I don’t… it doesn’t sound….” _Eyee-tea._

I watched Neriwen curl up on her bedroll and settle back into sleep.

_Eye-tea. Aye-tee. Aytee. Aitee. Aiiiti. Aiti. Haitee._

“H-Haiti! Oh, that makes so much sense, now.” The epiphany came loudly, and I quickly shut my mouth, looking toward a slumbering Thrynn and Neriwen.

No wonder I couldn’t understand what Altanir had spoken with semi-confidence. He had spoken Haitian Creole! I returned my gaze to a confused man. “Did your wife ever say what year she came to Skyrim? Or what year she was born?”

“Hmm. She was thirty-four when she died, so, she was born year one hundred an’ sixty-six.”

“Ah, no. I meant, her years, from her world. I want to know if she was from my era.”

The man squinted. His gaze drifted to the middle space; he was searching his memory. He then leaned forward, and with his right forefinger, drew figures in the dirt. When he pulled back, I gasped.

 _1 9 4 2_ , he had written, using the Arabic numerals. Not my era. Definitely not my era.

“The year she came to Skyrim, in her years. I remember, because she kept saying those words, ‘nineteen forty-two’, but, you know, in her language. She wrote things down for us, when she was learning, so we could help her. These symbols were one of the first things she wrote.” He laughed. “When she could finally say all of the things she wanted to say, she would yell all the time about a war, but the Great War ended before she came. There was no war here during that time. She said she wanted to be a healer in ‘the second great war’, but she had been too young. She also yelled about her king – or, no, not ‘king’, but something like it. She did not like her land’s leader. This is how we finally confirmed she was from a different time, or a different world.”

“How did Nadège die?” I asked Altanir quietly. “If… you don’t mind saying.”

He nodded. “It was a sickness. Fast, horrible. A few dozen people in Whiterun died from the same. Oddly, no humans except her fell sick, only elves, orcs, and beastfolk. It came, and it went. Were you ever ill, here?”

“A few times, but I think that was from bad food.”

Altanir took a hesitant bite of his dinner. “Other than language and always being cold, other than the sickness, she lived well, easy. Said life here wasn’t very different from hers, there. Was it the same for you?” He turned to me. “Familiar?”

I stared at the man, almost offended. “No, Altanir. It was not easy. I am from her world, yes, but a different time. A different land. Many, _many_ things changed from her time. I came from—” I groaned, not feeling like doing math “—more than sixty years later. No big war, just… fighting, happening far, far away. I had an easy life. I was… you know, like in a palace. Easy.”

Altanir nodded, understanding perfectly well. The expression was a common one. Those living in a palace led an easy life, privileged. Their hardships were wholly different from that of dock workers.

“Nadège kept journals, too,” Altanir continued. “I still have them all, at the farm. Assuming the farm is still standing. If it is, whenever I get back to Whiterun, I’ll collect them for Ash.” He chewed some food, and swallowed. “Interesting name, Ash. He has a different accent from you. Is he from a different land?”

“Yes.”

“So you didn’t come through together, from _Latè_?”

“No. I met him, him and three other men, about a year ago. They fell into this world, together. His friends are dead, now.”

Altanir exhaled a long, exasperated sigh. “It’s warm tonight.” When I turned to the man, he was loosening ties that held the leather sleeves of his armor to the main chest piece. Like a shoelace, the thong became undone, and the sleeve slipped off without a fight. “That’s better.” He turned, and tugged at the other side.

I recalled a memory, one of Greg in a tank top, brushing his teeth. His recently washed black hair had begun to curl at the ends, and with teasing fingers I had pulled the tresses back and pinned the clump in place with a big, purple hair clip. Greg had laughed. It was one of the better memories.

“How did Nadège come here?” I asked the Greg quasi-lookalike.

“An accident. She tripped on a stone that was not there before, an’ fell to a grass field that was not there before. Right in front of my mother.”

“She fell in front of your mother?”

“While she was tending our goats.” He laughed, and continued to laugh as he spoke. “She—she was so confused. She saw my mother, very dark-skinned like her, an’ thought she had walked in her sleep to some farmer’s field outside of her town.” He wiped a cheerful tear from his eye. “My mother said Nadège was so _angry_ when she wasn’t understood. Spitting all kinds of words my mother could only assume were unkind.”

“When was this? How many years?”

“Oh, twenty? More. I was away with my father for a few days at the time, but when I returned, I met her. Most beautiful, impatient creature ever to exist. We married one year later – young. Her an’ my mother fought a lot, but the kind of fights that happen between people who care for one another.” He smiled sweetly. “She loved her, first.”

My lips crept into a smile before a frown reset. “Your wife fell into a nice family, then.” I tossed a pebble into the brush. “I fell into a band of outlaws. And Ash, Ash just fell.”

“You didn’t fall into a band of outlaws,” Thrynn’s voice crooned as he approached us. “You fell into _me_ and a band of outlaws.” He plopped down onto the ground a few steps across from Altanir and I, a big stick of jerky clenched in his fist. He gnawed and sucked at the other end.

“Ahh….” Altanir sat forward, and looked from Thrynn to me. With a grin, he added, “So that is why you hate him.”

“Everyone hates Thrynn,” Neriwen muttered from the sleeping area.

I looked over to the hulking man. Thrynn was smiling at Neriwen’s comment. But quickly, very quickly that smile faded, and from across the lantern-lit space I could see a deep sadness set in his eyes.

Altanir clapped a hand against my shoulder. “Alright, Red. Let us attempt to sleep.” The man collapsed with a grunt onto his bedroll, and settled quickly.

Though my back was turned away from the lantern, and despite Neriwen and Thrynn keeping quiet, I never slept. Every whisper of the wind, and every crunch of a dry leaf set my nerves on edge. I lay there, eyes closed at times, left hand gripping the sheathed Dawnbreaker the remainder of the night.


	8. Chapter 8

The journey to Fort Dawnguard was taking longer than Altanir expected, but only by about half a day’s ride, according to him. We would not spend a second night on the road, but we would not reach the fort until well after sundown. Unfortunately, this meant we would need to travel with the aid of torchlight. As we were already within the valley that led to the fort, Altanir wasn’t worried about attracting unwanted attention. I added several orbs of Magelight to the mix.

Adding to the delay caused by a group of bandits we encountered early in the morning, Honey’s colt tired more often than the four grown mares, and rests were needed to not exhaust the weeks-old foal.

Early in the day, just after the bandits were dealt with, Altanir had led us to the well-hidden entrance to the valley. None of us had seen the entrance before shown the unremarkable crevice in the side of the mountain. The passage was just big enough for a large horse-cart, I estimated, but short. We had to dismount before entering. Altanir had panicked somewhat when he realized the wards on the entrance were completely gone. They had been intact, he explained, when he left. Likely, days without enough magical strength from the sun and stars had diminished the spell.

The valley was very quiet. Cascading water, bird song, our horses, and the occasional critter rustling in the brush were the only ambient noises. It was not that much different from anywhere else in the uninhabited areas of Skyrim, but the valley lacked the rush of wind so common across the main land. There was no constant whispering against the ears, no wisps of hair in the face.

I felt at ease, here. I convinced myself this meant my instincts felt no immediate danger, and that I could relax. At least a little bit. No one had followed us, as far as I could tell. This valley remained secret.

The creamy-roan colt stalled for a moment to sniff at something behind a tree. He then snorted, and pranced forward to catch up with his dam. His spritely demeanor was a welcome distraction from reality.

“I should name him,” I mused to Altanir, who rode to my left.

“He might not survive,” the man warned, his voice soft, worrisome.

“And?” I shot Altanir a biting glance. He noticed, and looked away. “That doesn’t matter. He should have a name.”

“Alright.” He grunted. “What will you name him?”

Altanir’s tone was sarcastic, with a dash of annoyance. I reminded myself that he grew up on a farm. Perhaps he cared only for the utility of an animal. Perhaps he was a realist.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I will think of something.”

The valley was narrow at times, forcing us to travel single-file. During a stretch, the temperature chilled. Looking up, I could see some snow on the mountains surrounding us. I figured we were in a sort of elevated mountain pass. Eventually, the path stretched out again, and the sunless sky warmed the air, minimally. The valley was set deep against the mountain walls. Only small patches of land could have been considered foothills. This area was more of a canyon than a valley. Perhaps that was the meaning of the word Altanir used to describe this place. Dayspring _Gjul._ Dayspring Canyon.

Dayspring. A cheerful name for a place that looked so ominous. Though, the lighting likely made all the difference. A dark, red-tinted sky made everything look ominous.

As the day dragged on, boredom set in. So did what Neriwen called _krakaras_ , or ‘saddle ass’, caused by a combination of long days of riding plus improperly fit saddles and lack of good saddle pads. Altanir didn’t experience the same rear fatigue as the rest of us did. He was used to traveling. Neriwen suggested he offer us all butt massages tonight. She might not have been joking.

Further on, more wildlife appeared. Neriwen and her bow were excited to see a healthy doe, but Altanir didn’t want her to kill it. There was likely no need, as the fort was well stocked with food, and the surrounding forests teeming with game.

We stopped several times, longer breaks than the previous day. The colt was tiring to the point where I had to tie a lead rope from his halter to Honey’s bridle. I didn’t want to force the foal to walk when he probably shouldn’t, but I had no choice. He needed his dam. I promised the colt that he would have a luxurious respite once we reached the fort. I promised Honey, too.

I wondered if I should leave her there, at the fort, whenever we traveled again. The colt would need to nurse for at least another two to three months, according to Altanir. We couldn’t take him with us if we wanted the pair to thrive.

The threat of separation from Honey, a horse I cared for as much as her owner, gnawed at my insides. My fingers knotted into her mane. My fists clenched. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Are you alright?” Altanir asked, quietly.

My fingers let loose Honey’s mane. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Mhmm.”

Not a breath later, a towering, unnatural shape came into view in the distance. Just barely contrasted against the clouds was the cylinder of a sky-scraping turret, a structure as tall if not taller than the imposing Winterhold College. A wall, and shorter, smaller turrets came into view as we rounded a bend. If this was only a portion of Fort Dawnguard, the grounds must have been gargantuan.

“There it is,” Altanir announced. “The sentries should be—ah, yep, there they are.”

Sentries. _Korfen_. Sentry, _korf_. I didn’t know that word, did I? It sounded new. How had I known what Altanir meant? Context? No. I hadn’t seen the sentries until after he spoke.

“Altanir, is that you?” One of the sentries, a woman, held forward a torch as Altanir lowered his.

“Indeed it is,” he answered rather vigorously before adding, “with important company.”

“Important?” the woman asked, moving the torch as she examined us. “Alright. Go on. Way’s clear.”

Altanir clicked his tongue and nudged his heels into his mare. The rest of us followed, and the sentries continued their patrol westward.

“Everyone,” Altanir called, “listen. When we enter the fort, we will be tested to be certain we’re not vampires. Since the sky is dark, they can’t use sunlight, an’ will instead use a spell. Similar to what you did at Windhelm, Red.”

Red. He meant me, using the Norren word for the color. Deborah the Red. Deborah Rath. It was not my name.

“It will hurt your eyes,” he continued, “so close them at my signal.”

“A spell like what I did?” I asked.

“Did I not mention that? There is a spell some know, members of the Dawnguard. It harms the undead, not just vampires. Though, to vampires, it is very painful. Some call it Stendarr’s Light. It creates an orb of light around the caster. This and other spells like it, they have a similar effect as the sun. Vampires are weakened by the sun, which, of course, is why there is no sun, now. I never learned these spells; was never very good with magic. But you, Red, you might be able to learn them. You _should_ learn them.”

“So, wait,” Thrynn interjected. “They’re gonna use this magic against us?”

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Altanir said, grinning. “If you are indeed still one of the living, you will not feel anything.”

Altanir led us to the stables. I was nervous to part with Honey, but I had no choice, and Altanir was confident in the canyon’s protection. Looking around, there were at least a dozen other stabled horses, and I thought I glimpsed a paddock behind some pines. The stablehand, a teenage boy, quietly and dutifully accepted our mounts. He and Altanir exchanged knowing glances before we returned to the dirt road.

The fort, using a portion of the mountainside as its foundation, seemed to grow in height as we approached what must have been the main entrance. Guards were posted outside the tall, iron doors, and roaring braziers flanked the base of the entrance steps. One of the guards held what looked like a mage’s staff.

“Altanir Stonefield,” my companion announced to the guards from the base of the steps. “An’ friends.”

The mage-guard turned to the other, and nodded. The other guard then descended, and with Altanir walked toward the brazier. The guard grasped Altanir’s chin, turned his head from side to side, and then stepped back.

“Next,” the guard commanded.

The three of us looked ponderously to Altanir who, as was suddenly apparent, was the leader of our small gang.

“They need to check your eyes,” Altanir breathed the explanation, annoyed at either the procedure or the fact that he had to explain it.

“For what?” Thrynn asked.

“Vampire eyes,” Altanir said, “they… look different.” He gestured anxiously to the brazier.

The horror of Ralof’s tainted face haunted my memory. Red, flaming eyes, and a scrunched, angry grimace. Battling dozens – hundreds? – of the creatures hadn’t offered the same memory. They were strangers. Nameless monsters. Ralof was neither.

I stepped up to the brazier, completely disassociated from the movements, mind focused on a distant friend. A forceful turn of my neck and the bark of “next” shook me out of my daze.

Once the guards were satisfied of our non-vampiric status, the mage-guard rapped a small lever against the door a few times in a specific rhythm. The knocker created a deep, thrumming clang. A moment later, the rattling of a mechanism sounded behind the doors before they opened with a small jerk. The guards pushed the doors open the rest of the way, and urged us inside.

Unsurprisingly, a suite of guards met us inside the well-lit circular foyer. Behind them, iron gates closed off several high-arched doorways. We were stopped by the guards just after the entrance and made to stand on iron grate. The grate rounded the circumference of the room, accenting the otherwise nondescript smooth pavestone floor. Sound echoed. The ceiling was domed with a circular opening at the top, like the Pantheon in Rome. Set in the center of the roof hole was a reflective object, though I couldn’t tell what.

The situation felt dire, a well-practiced trap. If this was an ambush, the evening would not end well for anyone.

“Do it,” a smooth, deep voice ordered from above.

“Close your eyes,” Altanir warned immediately after.

The moment I did, an intense light illuminated the room, showing me the pink of my eyelids. A feeling of exuberance swept over me, much like the rush that came from a hot shower. I felt a hand grip my forearm and squeeze tight. Tighter. The light stopped, and I opened my eyes.

Wrong. The light was still shining.

No. Not the light.

My vision had blanched again. I was still reeling from the rush.

“Check her,” the lofty voice called.

Altanir’s hand was removed from my arm and I was ushered to the center of the room. Guards closed around me. The glint of metal signaled drawn weapons. I saw the yellow glow of a spell.

“I’m alright,” I breathed.

Someone grabbed my chin and tilted my head up.

“She’s not a vampire!” Thrynn hollered. Someone shushed him.

“Get Isran down here,” a woman ordered. “And a Vigilant.”

Vigilant? _Fakne_. I knew the word. I never heard the word before, but I knew it. _Fakne. Fakna. Fakn._ My vision returned to normal. The endorphin rush dissipated and I collapsed. The guards caught me.

“Deb!” The shout was Thrynn’s.

“Hold them back, nephew.” The man with the deep voice neared.

“She isn’t a vampire, Isran,” said Altanir. “She’s Dragonborn, and a mage. Whatever that spell did to her, it isn’t—”

A woman gasped. “Meridia!” A sword was unsheathed. “I can sense the Daedra Lord. Isran, look!”

Someone tried to grab Dawnbreaker. I reacted.

Grasping the robed woman’s wrist, I clamped and twisted. She yelped. An older, dark-skinned Redguard with silver eyes separated us.

“Enough!” He turned to the woman who tried to steal my sword. “Sheath your weapon or have it taken from you.” The woman, perhaps an Imperial, began to protest, but the man’s stare of doom shut her up.

I took a step back from the both of them.

The Redguard turned to me. “You. What’s happening with your eyes? I could see it from up there.” He motioned above and behind him.

“My eyes,” I said. “Were they white?”

“White and glowing,” the robed woman answered. “Meridia is within her, Isran. She carries one of her artifacts!” She gestured animatedly toward Dawnbreaker.

“Meridia _is_ in me!” I snapped at the woman. “I am her Champion. I have been her Champion for years. Who do you think has helped me fight the zombies that walked Skyrim last year? Fight vampires in Windhelm and Riften? My friends and I have saved this world once already and you scream as if I am a monster. I am here to find help, so that the sky can be fixed. I want to find the vampire-Dragonborn Torug and kill him. I don’t know who or what you are, but touch Dawnbreaker again and you will—”

Altanir hacked violently, a fake cough clearly intended to gain my attention. He vaguely masked a staccato “shut up” and looked away. I did as he suggested.

I turned back around toward the man called Isran to find him chuckling.

 

“Another Dragonborn. So Altanir wasn’t lying.” Isran led us four to a sort of meeting room, filled with a large table and chairs enough for a couple dozen people. “I’d never seen someone react the way you did to the spell. Vampires burn and smoke, at least a little bit. To everyone else, it does nothing. What did you feel?”

I huffed through my nose. “Good. I felt good. Very good. Have you ever prayed to the gods and felt their presence? It was like that. At least, it felt that way with Kyne.”

“Mm. Yeah, I know what you mean.” Isran motioned toward the chairs. The five of us sat. “You don’t have to worry about the Vigilants. They will want to take and destroy that sword of yours, but they won’t harm you. I don’t think.”

“She isn’t a Daedra _truthe_ ,” Altanir insisted.

“No, but possessed by one,” said Isran. “You know them. No compromise.”

“I’m not possessed,” I corrected. “Not truly. I am still me. She is just… I think I have a part of her in me. She helps when the vampires become too much. Protects my body. She wants me to hunt and kill the vampires. You hunt and kill vampires. I don’t understand how this is a problem.”

Isran nodded. “It isn’t. Not with me. You say you want to fix the sky? Kill Torug? I can work with that. You’re still living; that’s enough for me.”

A young man entered the room.

“Do you need anything?” asked Isran. “Food, water?”

“The latrines?” Neriwen asked.

I chuckled. “Ah, yes. Me too, actually. Latrines.”

“And then dinner would be great,” Thrynn added.

. . . . . .

Tomorrow. We would discuss the situation with Isran tomorrow. I was thankful, as I hadn’t slept the night before and was utterly exhausted.

Lying on my assigned cot, I stared into the hearth fire that lit the multi-bed dormitory. Dawnbreaker was still sheathed at my side, and I still wore my comfortable leather armor.

“Sleep, Red,” Altanir urged from behind me. He must have sensed my lack of slumber.

“That isn’t my name,” I mumbled, not bothering to turn around to face him.

“Apologies, Dragonborn.”

I could hear the grin in his voice. I sighed. “Am I safe, here? From the… Vigilants?”

“Yes, Dragonborn. Do not worry, Dragonborn. I will smell them, if they come for you, Dragonborn.”

I groaned, and Altanir chuckled before he settled quickly into sleep, signaled by faint snoring.

In the cot ahead of me lay Thrynn. He pressed himself up from his side and turned enough to peer at me. He then flipped himself to his other side, facing me, and resettled.

“You alright, _ki-Dibella_?”

“ _Ugh_. What is it with people and nicknames?” I turned away from Thrynn and did my best to ignore the world around me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> krakaras - saddle ass
> 
> Korfen - sentries
> 
> korf - sentry
> 
> Fakne - Vigilant of Stendarr ("one who is vigilant")
> 
> Fakn - Vigilance
> 
> Fakna - Vigilant
> 
> truthe – cultist
> 
> ki - not


	9. Chapter 9

_Flash of turquoise burning. On the temple-top, she glows._

_“Enough of magic!” The dragon is angry. “Help or get out of my way.”_

_“I know whom you serve.” Growling in her heart. Bitter. Terrified. “I know what you have done. You will find no aid here!”_

_Deep breath. Fire, take her!_

_Glitter of gold blinding. She vanishes._

_Curses from the dragon anger the spirits._

 

My body jerked violently awake. I might have yelped. Was I on fire? No. The fire was contained in the hearth. I was fine. I was fine?

“What is it?” Thrynn inquired, shuffling about on his cot.

_Where am I?_

I looked around. Cots. Thrynn, and a sleeping Neriwen. More nameless bodies filling the other beds. Altanir was still behind me, glaring with one flashing eye. I was not on fire, and Altanir settled back into sleep.

“Bad dream, huh?”

Thrynn, again. Always with the questions. _I’m always alright. Stop asking if I’m alright_.

“It… yeah. Dream. Nothing—” I paused, experiencing the play-back in my mind’s eye.

“What?”

My mouth opened, wanting to form a word. What had I seen? Someone was angry. Someone… bad. Evil?

“There was,” I began, quietly, “a temple.” I saw the round structure. In the dream, I had known what it was. “And,” I continued, “a… man. Angry.” My eyes darted to Thrynn. “Torug.”

“Torug!” he whisper-shouted.

“And a… a mage? A woman. Not me. Someone….” I strained to remember. “Someone from that place. She was… defending, I think. But, Torug, he wasn’t… he wasn’t a vampire. He was normal.”

“It felt real, didn’t it? Like you were there.”

It had. It had felt very real. “I think… Meridia. She has sometimes met with me, in my dreams. But maybe, maybe with magic weakened… maybe she sent me a dream? A vision?” I looked to Thrynn for confirmation, but received only a shrug. I sighed. “She sent me visions before. But I had touched something of hers, when it happened. Her Light. But, maybe….” I gripped Dawnbreaker, sliding it a fraction out of her sheath. “Maybe now, she’s always here. Always… has a connection.”

Thrynn scoffed. “Better you than me to figure out such things. But, shit, if you saw a vision of Torug, that’s somethin’, right? Maybe we can figure out where he is.”

“In the past. He was there in the past.”

“Still. It’s better than ‘I have no fucking idea’.”

The man had a point. “I’m going to find some paper. Write it down.”

“Want me to come with you?”

As I rummaged through my bag for my ink and quill, Thrynn’s offer was silently rejected with a glare.

He pushed out a hand. “Right. Fine.” He fluffed his thin, sad pillow and flopped himself back down onto his cot.

. . . . . .

After breakfast, Isran wanted to speak with me alone. He wanted to know more about me, my connection to Meridia, and my abilities as a mage and Dragonborn. He also heard rumors about my origin, which I confirmed. He was somewhat unnerved by the idea of portals, but mostly because he worried vampires could travel to _my_ world. Given the proliferation of vampire stories on Earth, I was convinced they already had, in the past, but I didn’t mention this to the man.

I explained how Meridia and Arkay, even Akatosh worked together to bring my soul to this world. They rebuilt me, and some of my clothing. When they did this, they made me better, in a way. Fixed a few things about me. Something that they did allowed me to make children, and Akatosh made me a mage. I noted how healing magic was the only thing allowing me to see properly, but that even with the sun and stars blocked, my magic worked, just weakened.

I told Isran about Dawnbreaker, and what she did to the undead. I mentioned that several Shouts were particularly useful against vampires: fire, ice, slowed time, and whatever it was that I did at Windhelm. I couldn’t remember the words that made up the Shout, unfortunately.

“I heard the magic turned vampires to ash,” Isran noted.

“It did, apparently. I lost consciousness after. Altanir would know more about what happened.”

Isran eyed the scar at the midline of my throat, and then turned to look out a narrow window. “Do you think a Shout could have done that?” He motioned at the red-haloed space where clouds partially covered a dimmed, reddened sun.

I watched the silent sky for a while. “I studied with the Greybeards. In three months, I mastered many Shouts, and learned several others. One Shout I know can clear the sky of storms and clouds, but it did nothing for this sky. Alduin, the black dragon, he knows a Shout that can send fiery rocks from the sky. My Shout cleared that. So, no, I don’t think this—” I gestured at the sun “—is a Shout. But… what I did at Windhelm, that was nothing I learned before. It was… felt, in that moment. I was angry. I had….” I breathed deeply. “People were dying. Too many people. Whatever I did, it was to protect myself and others. It was… revenge, and the effect quickly faded, I’m told. If, _if_ this sky was made with a Shout, then it is more powerful than anything I have done. So, no, I don’t think it was a Shout. Magic, yes, but no magic I know.”

Isran sighed, and plopped himself onto a chair. “Well, that’s more than we knew yesterday.”

I sat, too, and waited for the man to continue speaking. When he didn’t, I saw my opportunity. “There is another reason I am here, Isran,” I began, gaining his gaze, “and I need to you listen, please, before you say anything.”

He nodded. “Alright, I’m listening.”

I nodded once, a sort of bow in thanks. “My family – my children, and close friends – they are alive, hiding underground in Riften after three attacks by vampires. There are many more people there, too, all underground in a wet… whatever place it is where people’s leavings may go. Not a nice place.”

Isran smoothed a palm down his face. His weariness was noticeable, but he continued to listen.

“They have enough food for three months, the steward thinks. There are several carts there that I know of. One horse cart, some hand carts. We took the only horses we found, to come here. And, by your face I think you know what I will ask. It is two days to travel there on horse, perhaps not much more with carts and strong horses. They need protection if they are to travel, more than I, Altanir or others alone can provide. My friend there, Marcurio, he is a mage, powerful like me. He protects them now, and can help protect them while traveling. He can help heal, here; add to your mages I know you have. Khajiit are there, and they can see well in this dark. We can bring their supplies, and the few cattle they found. The only problem I can see is… where two hundred people will sleep.”

“Two hundred!?”

I fidgeted in my seat. “Almost, yes. But there are hunters with them, too. If given tents, just tents to live and hunt in this valley, I think that is better than being underground where the vampires know they are. And I do not know if I can fix the sky in three months. I cannot let my family starve, Isran. The Dawnguard wants to protect the world from vampires? Begin with the surviving people of Riften, your neighbor city. I am certain many will want to join, help in what ways they can. Altanir already suggested this to the steward, the acting jarl. She did not refuse, and was only concerned about being killed on the journey. With protection from warriors and mages, I think they will feel better. I will feel better.” I swallowed a threatening lump in my throat. “I will breathe better, knowing my son is safe.”

Isran, eyeing me, rapped his fingertips in quick rhythmic succession against the table. “Son, eh?”

I nodded.

The man reclined against the chair back and scratched his short beard. He then cupped the back of his head with his finger-linked palms, pondering. “Only two hundred survivors….” His thoughts and voice trailed off, and his gaze shifted to the table. “We have agents—” his hands flowed through the air “—everywhere. Had troops out since Markarth, looking for answers.”

Agents. _Budmathiren_. _Bud_ , mandate. Mandate men. I understood. How did I understand?

“We don’t have many swords to spare right now,” Isran continued, “not until a troop or two returns. I’ve had reports come in occasionally from all around. Interesting ones from the north. The Pale.” Laughing, he added, “Even in the summer it’s cock-freezing cold, there.” The man paused a moment, silver eyes wide, perhaps realizing his choice of words was rather informal. “But, eh, yeah.” He stood, and walked slowly to the room entrance. “I’ll have to talk to our stewards and quartermasters, but… yeah. It might work.” He faced me and repeated, “ _might_ work. Not everyone would have to sleep in tents, though. There’s some space inside, underground. A safehouse.”

He motioned for me to follow him. “You might benefit from speaking with our researchers. The surviving Vigilants may not want anything to do with you. But for the greater good, I will make them speak with you, as long as they want shelter, here.”

“What do you mean, ‘surviving’?”

“Ah. The Vigilants of Stendarr were being hunted by vampires. They… well, the Vigilants hunt the undead like we do, but also daedra, and worshippers of the Daedra Lords. Anything attached to Oblivion, basically.” He shook his head. “I used to be one of them. I left and… well, now I lead this lot.”

“So, you’ve already taken in some survivors.”

“Yeah, but not many. Most of the Vigilants are gone. Only a few came here. But there’ve been some villagers who found their way here through friends in the Dawnguard. We’re not opposed to acting the guardian. It is part of what we do, after all. We have this fortress, and we’re building more walls to expand the protected ground. The mountains help. Even for vampires, it’s hard to climb these cliffs. Have to wonder if we could make this place as _mulega_ as Markarth.”

“Markarth?” I stopped walking, and Isran turned. “Markarth was invaded, taken by Forsworn. Or, Forsworn-vampires. Vampiric Forsworn.”

Isran, smiling and chuckling, loosely shook a finger at me as he approached. “It was an inside job, mostly. The Forsworn are clever, if nothing else. They lived in the city – ‘sleeping agents’ we call them – and waited for the time to attack. The vampire thing came after.”

I felt my face scrunch. “Yeah, I thought this too. Torug infected them.”

“But how did Torug become a vampire? And not just any vampire, but one that can create vampires unlike those we’ve ever seen.” Isran waved me forward, and we walked again through hallways and to a higher level. “We haven’t been able to figure that out, but like I said, we’re working on it. Reading, hunting, questioning. The strongest vampires don’t talk, and the weak ones don’t know anything. There’s a difference between vampires that we’ve noticed these last few months. Their blood is different. They react differently to the sun; though, the sun still weakens them all. Torug’s vampires, they’re stronger, faster, and disappear. It’s more than just invisibility magic; all vampires can do that. We can’t find their lair because magic can’t track them. And they’re clever, disappearing before going to wherever it is they hide.”

“I tried to find them, too. Well, Torug. I can’t be found by magic, either.”

“Huh.” Isran seemed to take note of that fact. “Anyway,” he said, “here’s the library. It’s been restocked over the last few years. Some books are on special loan from Winterhold, arrived a couple months ago.”

“Winterhold? Urag leant you books?”

Isran chuckled. “You know the old orc?”

I smiled. “I was a student at the college.”

“Oh? Well then maybe you know Onmund.”

I nearly fell back down the stairs we were standing in front of.

Isran caught me. He spoke words my brain didn’t decipher. We walked forward. Bookshelves. So many bookshelves. A table. Isran sat me down on a bench. Dark fingers snapped in front of my face until—

“Hey!” Isran flicked my forehead, hard.

 _Ow…_. “What? Ow. What?”

“Your eyes aren’t white. So what’s wrong with your head?” He flicked my brow again.

“Stop”—I grabbed his finger— “doing… that.” I squeezed, and then released.

“Hey, Deborah.”

_Shit. Shit. Little Shit. Big Little Shit. Fucking… shit stain, Little Shit._

I stood as Onmund approached. He was more pale than I remembered. “What are you doing here?” I grumbled.

“Helping,” the Nord mage stalker-wanker said flatly with a shrug.

He was no longer wearing heavy, imposing black armor, nor carrying a large rose-tipped staff, but rather donned shoddy mage robes and a steel mace.

“‘Helping’,” I repeated.

“Onmund came here several months ago,” Isran said. “The Vigilants had taken him in as an _afsoke_ , purged him of Sanguine’s influence, and then accepted him as a recruit.” The Dawnguard leader turned to face me. “What wrongs he’s done in the past, I assure you they won’t happen again.”

“ _Do_ you,” I blurted rather aggressively.

“It’s true, Deborah.” Onmund’s voice was softer than it had been, last I knew him. “I traveled far, saw—” he placed a book back onto a small cart “—too many things. I… walked away. What I did to you and the others at the College, it’s unforgiveable. Definitely unforgettable. I won’t be able to apologize enough.” His tone carried a seriousness, and almost a sweetness akin to the way he used to be, when I first met him. “But I’m not here to beg forgiveness. I’m here because the Vigilants who would make me one of them have been killed. I’m here because I can help. And, I’m glad you’re here, because I have new information. Nothing that can help us with the vampires, but, still, information.”

Isran walked away, but stayed within the library.

“What information?” I asked coldly.

Onmund’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Initially, I wanted to help, and initially, I did. After visiting Whiterun, I used what power I could summon from Oblivion to examine Bromjunaar. The Thalmor had wanted dragon masks that were actually keys to obtain another, powerful dragon mask. At least, that’s what I was told. But, since the Thalmor don’t have all the keys, well, they can’t obtain the final mask. We found the wooden mask, the one Elodie was looking for, in the hands of some Thalmor agents. We killed the agents, and took the mask.”

Arms crossed and face set in a glower, I asked, “Did you find Elodie? Give her the mask?”

The pervert shook his head. “I don’t know how to contact her. I still have it. I don’t trust anyone else to its keeping.”

I stabbed my tongue with my teeth. “Well? Was the mask a key to the ‘past and present’? Or was it ‘beginning and end’? I can’t remember.”

“The mask unlocked a portal,” Onmund replied as he half-sat on a table.

For a second, I forgot to breathe. A shallow gasp later, I asked, “A portal to what?”

“The Merethic Era. The Dragon War, specifically.”

My heart began to race. Dragon War. Also known as the time when Alduin was banished from, thus losing the war to the ancient Nords, thus causing more problems for me.

“And what—” my voice caught, and I cleared my throat. “What did you… do… in the past?”

“Do? I didn’t _do_ anything. The temple back in those days was full of Nords who worshipped dragons. They were all crazy, grasping at their final days. Half of the place was on fire. Thalmor who traveled through had been slaughtered, their….” He gagged, and paused a moment. “Well, let’s just say proof of their deaths was not cleared away.”

I let Onmund’s revelations settle into my brain. “What do you think the Thalmor wanted with the portal?”

“Kill off the Nords? Let Alduin rule, or perhaps end the world? Perhaps they’re just as scared as we are of dragons and wanted to learn something. Unfortunately, I just don’t know. It doesn’t matter. They can’t go back, now, and whatever they might have done in the past has not changed this present.”

I nodded, and then stared at my elbow. Then, satisfied I had learned all of what Onmund had to tell me, I approached him.

“It’s good that you want to help,” I began. “To fix this vampire problem, we need a lot of help.” I walked closer to the shorter man, and invaded his personal space. “But if I see you using invisibility magic for anything other than escaping an attack, I will—”

“Do nothing,” Isran interrupted, gaining my sneer which he ignored. “Onmund, as a Vigilant recruit, is under the protection of the Dawnguard. As are you, and anyone else offered shelter here. We do not harm one another, here.” Isran enunciated each previous word very clearly. He was deadly serious. “I’m aware of this man’s past, and it will be me who handles any misuse of magic.”

Clearly put in my place, I backed away from the both of them. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. I won’t be here for long, anyway.”

I turned to leave the library, and Isran followed.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short (though not the shortest), but it didn't really fit with the others before and after. I think the following four chapters are far more exciting, though we'll still be at Fort Dawnguard. 
> 
> Chapter 14 will start Part 2 of this Book, but nothing after 13 is finished yet. I'm so close to finishing my dissertation, I have a herniated disc in the base of my spine, and I just found out my cat has a large tumor. So, I'm not in a great place right now to be creative. I have /started/ Chapter 14, and everything is plotted out, it just has to be written. I don't think I'll need any more beta reading, so as soon as a chapter is written and re-read and re-re-read by me, I'll post it. I just don't think I'll be able to keep up the once per week timing after Chapter 13. Sorry about that. I thought I had more time ("I have thirteen weeks! I can do it!!"...)
> 
> Real life is a bitch.
> 
> \--
> 
> Budmathiren - agents ("mandate men")
> 
> bud - mandate/order
> 
> mulega - impregnable/formidable
> 
> afsoke - penitent


	10. Chapter 10

A week had come and gone, and still no troops of Isran’s returned to the fort. Despite my restlessness, Altanir didn’t like the idea of us going back ourselves with a limited guard. Two hundred people needed more than a handful of escorts, and I certainly couldn’t go by myself.

To pass the time, I did as Iran had suggested. I met with his researchers, read what books, scrolls, and letters the library had to offer, and conferred with the Vigilants of Stendarr and, to my annoyance, Onmund. In doing so, I learned more about Stendarr. One of the nine gods or Aedra, Stendarr was the god of mercy, charity, justice, and good fortune. As Talos was a patron to many Nords, in particular the Stormcloaks, Stendarr was the patron of the Empire that was based in Cyrodiil, and of the Imperial Army. The Vigil of Stendarr was apparently a sort of cult, originally forming after portals to Oblivion opened up on Nirn in the previous era. Before they were the target of slaughter by vampires, they roamed Skyrim freely, ‘cleansing’ the land of daedric things and creatures.

I could tell how much the Vigilants loathed me and what I was. They kept their distance, rarely making eye contact but their gazes always settling upon Dawnbreaker which was forever at my side. I did not want to press them, to ruin our current diplomatic working relationship by trying to explain Meridia’s true origin as a divine being of light and life. Their beliefs didn’t matter; only results mattered.

My one saving grace, in the eyes of the Vigilants, was my claimed association with Akatosh and, in particular, Arkay. I did not dare explain to them, however, the details of my re-creation on Nirn. Even the priest of Arkay in Whiterun said it was unusual for the god of life and death to revive someone. I didn’t need the Vigilants to rethink my status, or believe I was dropped on Nirn from an Oblivion portal.

Onmund kept to himself most of the time. His nose was always buried in a book, and as the days passed I felt less of a need to mind him.

Often, I escaped to the ramparts where only a small, quiet patrol kept me company. I would create a space for myself to meditate as I had on top of the Throat of the World. I felt safe within the fort. With all the soldiers and mages below me, nothing short of a dragon attack would have been able to take me off guard. Unless, of course, vampires could fly. Our intelligence said they could not.

I meditated as deeply as I could, though distractions from below – sparring warriors, hollering commanders, general mundane business – kept my mind more grounded than I would have liked. More than anything, I wanted to meditate on the Shout I had used at Windhelm.

I had interviewed Altanir about the incident. He repeated what he already told me, and claimed he had only heard thunder, not words. The only thing I could recall about my own original thought process was that, somehow, the Shout related to Dawnbreaker, or to the sword’s magic. Beyond that, I had been too full of rage to remember anything.

Paarthurnax had told me about the Shout that the original Tongues created, one that allowed them to defeat Alduin. It hadn’t created the Time Wound on the top of that mountain – somehow a divine scroll had done that – but the Shout weakened Alduin. Paarthurnax hadn’t known what the Shout was exactly, or rather the Words of Power that it was composed of. Most likely, Paarthurnax’s Tongue friends would have been able to remember the Shout. Shame they died three eras ago.

In my time of True Need at Windhelm, the Shout I had used created itself. Perhaps if I had not been injured, I would not have passed out, and would today remember the words used. If only—

I took in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly as I gazed at the starless, cloudy sky. If only, what? If only I remembered those words. If only I had not been nearly killed. If only Yrsarald had not been bitten. If only he were here, now, meditating with me. Yrsarald always enjoyed meditation; it had kept him calm.

My head sank forward as air left my lungs. My diaphragm felt tight. I forced steady breaths.

_Where are you now, Kyne? Where is your Voice? Mortals need your help. I need your help. We’re dying. We’re being hunted by the undead. Paarthurnax is gone. Magic is weak. Are you blocked by the clouds, too? Is all of Aetherius blocked from us?_

_You spoke through me at Windhelm; I’m sure of it. You helped me create that Shout. Help me remember it, now._

_Please._

I breathed deeply again, and clutched my amulet of Mara.

_Please._

. . . . . .

“What have you heard,” I asked Isran, “about the other cities? The Holds?”

The two of us, plus various officials, had begun to meet daily after the morning meal. Altanir was not among us. He hadn’t been lying when he said his uncle did not like him.

One of the officials, I was pleasantly surprised to learn, was the Windhelm city guard Hrina who, with Altanir, escorted me to Riften while I was in a coma. She had disappeared soon after arriving at the southern city. Now I knew why. Hrina joined as a recruit and quickly climbed to the rank of fort guard. She was now a guard-captain, and was also one of the officers to whom agents reported directly. I was very happy to see her alive and well.

“The reports are on my desk,” the leader of the Dawnguard answered.

“Briefly, please,” I murmured. “At least Whiterun and Winterhold.” As far as I knew, no one left in Windhelm was familiar to me. Whiterun and Winterhold, however, housed many people I cared about. Whiterun was where Altanir’s sons were supposed to be, and where Selina, Ralof, and Eyleif were.

Isran shot me a cold glance, but soon softened. “It seems Windhelm and Riften got the worst of it early on. Perhaps your presence in both those cities was the reason for it, perhaps not. After Windhelm, other cities were wary. After Riften, after the sky went dark, cities were prepared. The Dawnguard helped with some of that preparation. From what I have heard, Whiterun still stands strong. Vampires attack, but nothing has been destroyed. Perhaps this is due to the Companions, or the group there that decided to hunt vampires like we do.”

“Groups like that are everywhere, Isran,” said Hrina. “They formed after the first attack on Windhelm.”

Isran waved his hand, wordlessly indicating, _What she said_. “Winterhold,” he continued, “I don’t know. None of us have been up there. We’ve heard no reports from travelers. I assume the College mages there protect themselves, and that they would protect what’s left of the townspeople there, too.”

“But what about food?” I asked. “Winterhold had been getting fresh food from Windhelm, from Eastmarch. There was an agreement between jarls. Winterhold is nothing but snow and ice. Last I knew, Windhelm was rebuilding. Are they still alright? With the sky as it is?”

The room fell quiet, and Isran shared a look with Hrina.

 _Shit._ “What?” I attempted to keep my voice calm. “Tell me.”

Hrina was the one to answer. “Windhelm is now occupied by vampires.”

 _Shit, shit._ Despite no longer having any connection to the city, the news hit hard, and my chest tightened.

“What do you mean, ‘occupied’?” I asked, as if I had misunderstood. “They… _live_ there, now!?”

Hrina and the others shared another glance. “It seems to be the vampires’ eastern stronghold.”

The fingernails of my left hand dug into the flesh of my right. “And in the west?” I asked through my teeth.

“We’re not sure, yet,” Isran answered. “They’re not in Markarth. Unexpected, but the city is fine. The Forsworn that were there were either slaughtered or turned, or fled. Many people are taking refuge in the city. Solitude has been attacked, but is otherwise standing. We do, however, think they’re hiding somewhere in Haafingar. Perhaps in the mountains. If Torug’s vampires are mostly Forsworn, and they might be, the Druadach Mountains would be the first place to look. It’s just too dangerous at the moment to go running blindly into those mountains. The sun needs to be unveiled, first, or we need a solid lead.”

Isran chewed the side of his thumb for a moment. “There was another group of vampires, different from Torug’s progeny, that we were tracking in The Pale. Agents are still there. Strange thing is, since the Windhelm attack, we’ve not seen these sorts of vampires much anymore, and lost track of the weaker vampires we’re used to hunting.”

“Torug’s vampires seem to be killing other vampire lines,” Hrina added. “Perhaps it’s a Forsworn thing. I think they attacked Windhelm again as revenge. On Ulfric, Nords, and on you, perhaps, Deborah. We’ve heard stories of Dunmer chased out of the city, alive.” Her tone was almost cheerful. “They wanted the city for its walls and stone buildings, too. I suppose… I suppose they didn’t need Riften intact.”

The room was quiet again. I could almost hear my own palpating guilt.

“How long?” I rasped. “When was Windhelm…?”

“The same day Riften was attacked,” Hrina answered, “the day the sky went dark. It must have been a signal.”

 _Breathe. Breathe._ “And, the people there. What was her name… Rikke? The weapon-rest. Galmar. Is it… are they…?”

Hrina frowned, and looked at her papers on the table. “Rikke was alive before the city was taken. That much we know. I don’t know about Galmar in Solitude. After Tullius’s death, after the Markarth incident, war camps were abandoned. The Stormcloaks don’t exist anymore, not as they did. Deserters of both armies have joined the Dawnguard, and war camps are being used by us, and other such groups. It seems the weapon-rest is no more, but is also unnecessary. The Imperial Army in Skyrim still has a presence. The Stormcloaks do not.” She took a deep breath. “Too much is happening for anyone to think about who will be High King, though rumor sides with Balgruuf.”

I nodded. “It’s true. I was told Balgruuf wants to be High King. Others want it, too.”

Isran chimed in. “None of that will matter if we don’t fix the sky and kill these vampires.”

“Or save Skyrim’s people,” I retorted, and turned to Hrina. “If Windhelm was fine until recently, the people in Winterhold might still be alright. Not starving, not yet.”

Isran and the others exchanged glances. “Getting there might be difficult,” Isran said, “but we’ve got people in The Pale, like I said. If I can get word to them, and if it’s safe, they might be able to at least look into it. Knowing the College, though, they’ll have heavy wards protecting the place. We might not be able to get close.”

“You were there, Deborah,” said Hrina. “Was Windhelm the only place Winterhold obtained food from?”

“Dawnstar, for instance,” Isran chimed in, “is nearby, too.”

“I don’t know. There was… one place, one small garden I saw in the Arch-Mage’s quarters. He only grew herbs there for potions, though. He used Magelight. I guess Magelight can grow plants.”

“Well, that’s promising,” said Isran, almost smiling.

“ _Well_ ,” someone behind me crooned, “if we’re going to be stuck indoors for the rest of time, then at least we can grow magical crops.”

The deep voice carried a curious, thick brogue. I smelled leather and strong body odor. The man who spoke walked past me toward Isran, and all I saw was a mess of orange-brown hair, a long, thick beard, and unwashed pale muscular arms. In that fleeting moment before seeing the man’s face I remained in complete shock. Nausea set in, and I was barely able to breathe.

With a gasp, I whispered, “Yrsa?”

The newcomer turned his head to me as he proceeded towards an empty chair, shattering the spell that had briefly come over me. Nose too long. Hair too orange. Too short, too trim, too old.

Not-Yrsarald sank onto a chair with a grunt. “Who’s this?” he asked, jutting his beard at me.

“The Dragonborn,” Isran answered, his voice extra gravely. “You know, the other one.”

“Her name is Deborah,” Hrina added.

“Ohhh, right,” the man said with a nod. “Come to save the world, have you? Shame it’s not dragons we’re worrying about. Lately.”

“She’s a vampire hunter, just like us,” said Isran, stretching the truth. “Did you have anything useful to add, Gunmar? We were in the middle of a meeting.”

_Gunmar. Gunmar?_

“No, no. Just late to the party.” Gunmar, a man very much not Yrsarald, scratched the scruff on his neck. “One of the trolls gave birth. Will be interesting to see what happens when I get one so fresh.”

“Trolls?” I murmured, ignored.

“But enough about that unpleasant experience,” the man continued. “As you were.”

“Oh, Gunmar!” I blurted.

“Hmm?” he said.

“Cousin to Ingjard and Eyleif?”

“I am. Why?”

“Iiiieehh….” I had planned on opening with _Ingjard is dead and it’s my fault, I’m sorry_ , but changed my mind. “We were talking about other cities and their… eh, well-being. Have you heard anything from Eyleif in Whiterun?”

“No, I haven’t been out of this place in months. And the girls and I aren’t close. We just happen to be each other’s only cousins.”

“Oh.” _Anyway…._ “So, Winterhold.” I turned to Isran. “Please, look into it if you can. I just want to know if they are not starving. Even if they are growing things inside with Magelight, I don’t know how long it takes to grow something to eat. Not fast enough, I think. Perhaps the people there should come here. Put the wards around this place.”

“How many people d’you think we can support, here?” chided another man whose name I’d forgotten. “More mages are certainly welcome, but how many people are there at the College of Winterhold?”

“Not just the College,” I corrected. “Everyone in the town.”

“You’re both right,” said Isran. “Stronger wards and mages would be useful.” The man thought a moment. “We’ll look into it.”

I breathed a little easier as thoughts of Brelyna, Jenassa, and all of Winterhold starving to death were temporarily allayed.

. . . . . .

Two weeks had passed since arriving at the fort, and I was still waiting for Isran to send a troop to rescue the people in Riften. Between meetings, reading, and meditating, I sparred with warriors using training swords, trying to build up my strength again. The training was grueling. My sparring partners were tough. The iron swords I used were heavy, much heavier to me than Dawnbreaker. Though I never used Dawnbreaker during matches, I always kept the sword with me, fearing the Vigilants would steal it.

Every training session resulted in me being drenched in sweat and sore to the bone. The strict officer in charge of the spars didn’t allow the use of potions or even magic to renew my strength until the end of the day. I had to know my own natural limits, was the justification. Magic being weakened and limited currently, I saw the logic in the officer’s orders.

Because I was not an actual Dawnguard recruit, I had the privilege of ending my training sessions whenever I wanted or needed to. Today, I ended earlier than previously.

Exhausted, I headed straight for the warrior’s bathing room. It was closer than the main barrack’s baths. I wasn’t sure my legs would have been able to carry me across the fortress grounds before a stretch, rest, and a soak.

The three warrior’s baths were large, capable of accepting about a dozen bodies each. I wasn’t terribly concerned about communicable disease, as potions and spells generally killed off such ailments. Aside from the four surrounding walls of the bathing room, there was no chance of privacy. After a few days of shedding my clothes in front of other bathing warriors, men and women alike, I began to feel less self-conscious. No funny business was allowed, and no one stared inappropriately without reprimand.

No heating mechanisms were available for these baths, but that was alright. I quickly learned the benefits of a cold soak after training, followed by a walk to the main barracks where I would clean properly in water heated either by cauldron or my own magic.

The distant sound of training warriors was pleasantly familiar. The same ambience was often heard within parts of the Windhelm palace, echoing from the underground training facility. Listening to the active sparring sent me back, briefly, to a more pleasant time.

The mages of the Dawnguard trained in another area except when warriors and mages sparred together. They didn’t have the energy receptors that the college had, useful for practicing highly destructive spells, but they did have inedible bales of moldy hay, broken shields and damaged armor, and other such expendable items to target and experiment on.

The mage instructor was an Imperial man named Florentius. He was also a priest of Arkay, and was in charge of setting the ward at the mountain valley entrance from The Rift. According to the mage, Arkay spoke to him directly. I had told him this was not the first time I had witnessed such a phenomenon, and asked the man if he was having any trouble, now that the power from Aetherius was nearly blocked. He had said it was true, that the god was quiet these days, only managing to converse within dreams. Others doubted his connection to Arkay, but when Florentius quoted me, repeating my last words to Virald before leaving Riften, I knew there had to be some truth to his claim. I had asked Florentius to talk to Arkay about various things, if he could, mainly the whereabouts of Torug, Stenvar, and the soul of Yrsarald. Unfortunately, the god was quiet on all accounts.

The cold water eventually became uncomfortable, and I left for the barracks. Others were already using the smaller, individual tubs in the bathing room, so I was stuck with the larger, wooden tub that was more difficult to heat. I only filled the tub with enough heated water to cover my body while lying down. The cauldrons were fortunately lifted by mechanisms that enabled easy pouring. Workers diligently refilled the cauldrons and fed the fires new logs.

My submerged head was oblivious to the world, for the moment. I stopped myself from worrying about Dawnbreaker being stolen. I stopped myself from worrying about my family. The world just stopped. Everything was peaceful, until the water level of the tub started to rise to my nose. Startled and annoyed, I sat up to find Thrynn, naked, pouring heated water into the tub.

“Hey, _Ki-Dibella_ ,” he said, all smiles. “Hope you don’t mind a little more water. I need a wash, too.” Thrynn then circled around to the second of three cauldrons that lined the tub, checked the temperature, and pulled the lever that tipped the cauldron toward the tub.

I would have, should have left immediately, but my muscles needed a warm bath after my cold soak. I also hadn’t finished washing, yet. I set out scrubbing as fast as I could, not particularly thrilled about the prospect of sharing bathwater with a man who bathed less than once a week.

By the time the water level was up to my chest, I had already begun the final step of washing my hair. Until that moment, I had managed to avoid glimpses of Thrynn. But as the man entered the tub, my head was tilted and my eyes were set in just the right position for me to witness a full frontal reminder of the man’s impressive body.

I froze, and immediately attempted to squint the visual out of my eyes. It didn’t work. I sunk into the water to rinse my hair and then promptly left the bath without a word.

. . . . . .

Still wet and wearing only a hide towel, I headed back to the dormitory, carrying my armor. There I found Neriwen, alone, lying on a straw mat by the hearth fire. She was smoking something from a pipe, a habit I had only seen once before in Skyrim.

“Hey, Drrragonborn,” she drawled after peering at the room entrance.

“Hey,” I replied before promptly drying and redressing. I then plopped down next to her with a drawn-out, growling sigh.

She lifted the pipe towards my mouth. “Want some?”

I sniffed the smoke the pipe produced. It reeked, much more so than any marijuana or tobacco I had ever smelled.

“What is it?” I asked.

Neriwen chuckled under her breath. “Just try it.”

“What will it do?”

The Bosmer sighed. “Help you relax. Help forget about… whatever it is you need to forget about. At least for a while.”

I stared at the pipe that Neriwen still held above her head.

She tilted her chin up to look at me. “Well?"

Normally, I would have declined. People seemed to die whenever I was distracted. But here in the fort, surrounded by dozens of capable people, I was safe. I could relax. I had completely forgotten that I could relax.

Without another word, I took the pipe from Neriwen, who smiled and then settled again on the mat.

Unfamiliar with this particular drug, I asked, “Should I take the smoke into me, or just my mouth?”

Neriwen laughed, and then coughed a little. “The depends on how relaxed you want to be.”

 _Inhale it is_. I stared at the pipe, admiring its carved designs, and then breathed in.

I was dizzy, at first, but soon the world was a wonderfully warm blanket, and nothing mattered.

 

The hearth fire crackled and popped. Someone had stoked it, reviving the flame. They might have said something to us. I looked around, but no one was there. The dorm was empty but for us two, on the floor.

“So… bugs,” I said, slowly. “The smoke… is bugs. Bugs.”

“Better than what the Khajiit smoke. And insects are everywhere, so this is basically free. Skooma and alcohol eat holes in your coin purse. But skooma… that stuff destroys elves and humans, if they aren’t careful. Orcs and Argonians too, probably. You saw Brynjolf. He was so handsome, before.” She sucked in air through her teeth. “Shame. I’m glad Altanir decided not to give it to you, back when you were still healing.”

“You… you’re not….” I groaned. “Whyyy aren’t you… you know…?”

The elf chuckled. “Because I’ve been smoking for more than half my life. You may feel later like you were kicked in the head by a horse, but you’ll be fine. Just let yourself relax.”

She handed the pipe to me again, and I inhaled, deeply.

The smoke scratched at my throat, but water pitchers were readily available.

“Why…? Wh—“ I caught my breath. “Why couldn’t—? Why didn’t—? I... needed this. In Riften. After.” I whimpered. “I was so… so sad, Nerrrwen. So sad.”

“Yeah, you were _with_ _child_. I’m all about doing whatever you want to do, but not when it comes to children. I’ve known mothers who smoked this while carrying, or nursing. You don’t want that for your kid. Same with skooma.”

I whined, loudly. “I haven’t… even had wine. Not even _wine_. I could have. There was no milk. All this time. What… three… no… month? One month?” I groaned. “I don’t… know the day, anymore.”

“And you’re making no sense.”

We lay in silence for a while, continuing to smoke. I briefly recalled that one time I got high in graduate school; that high was nothing compared to this. Whatever bug I was inhaling shared an effect with valium.

At some point, I had to pee. There were piss pots in the dorm, thankfully. I would never have made it to the main latrine.

At some other point, Neriwen had to pee. She did so standing, again. Even though her green hair, broad green facial tattoos, and lip piercing were far more intriguing to me than her genitals, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the fact that she had a penis.

She was definitely androgynous. Angular, straight-bodied with small breasts. Was she transgender? Maybe intersex. She must have preferred female pronouns. That, or Norren didn’t have any agender pronouns.

Neriwen’s gender didn’t matter. I knew that it didn’t matter. My loopy brain, however, became stuck on the subject. Lacking a filter, I blurted, “Do you like ‘her’?”

The Bosmer walked back to the hearth and gave me a curious look before sitting. “Who do I like?”

“What? No. No….” I groaned as I sat up. “What you are… called. Do you like ‘her’? The word.”

“The word?”

“I don’t… don’t want to call you wrongly. Wrong… bad. Badly. Damn it.” My brain was not working well, and a headache was slowly creeping in.

Neriwen, blank-faced, blinked several times before realization hit. She smiled. “Well, ‘Neriwen’ is a feminine name. A nice Bosmeri name I chose for myself because I liked the sound of it.” She paused, and a brief, small frown twitched across her lips. “But other than that, people see me as they want to see me. You met me through Altanir, and Altanir sees me as a woman or, just uses feminine words for me. So maybe that’s how you see me, too. Some see me as a man, and others as both, like Thrynn. He just says whatever comes out. Neither word is wrong. Just… not ‘it’. I am not a table.”

“A… table?”

She snorted, and shrugged. “First thing that came to mind.” She inhaled from her pipe. “There’s no other word for someone like me. I mean, among Nords there isn’t. Maybe there is in Valenwood where there are lots of Bosmer, but I was born in The Rift, so, I don’t know what traditional Bosmer think.” She inhaled again. “I’m not a man. Not a woman, either. I’m also both.” Neriwen lay back with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I shouldn’t…. I’m sorry.”

She waved her hand. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” I heard her inhale more from the pipe.

“Of course I’m sure,” she said. “Being honest, though?” She exhaled an impressive smoke ring, followed by two more. “I like ‘her’. The feminine words. I don’t know why. Maybe because of my name. Maybe…. I don’t know. Some people… they don’t like it, if they think I’m one thing and then see…” She stopped talking. The crackling fire filled the silence. “Fuck them,” she muttered.

I lay back down beside her and stared at the very high ceiling of the dormitory.

“Fuck them,” I repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are wild. I would post them now, but I'm gonna draw this out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** physical abuse, dehumanization

_Vampires and their Hunters: How to be a vampire hunter._

“That’s a terrible title,” I mused as I flipped open the tiny pamphlet, one of many copies. The scholar’s notes on the copy noted the original was written at some point during the second era, about a millennium ago.

Bored and still waiting for my family to arrive, I continued what I had been doing for the last twenty-two days: read. I read the notes of various Dawnguard agents from today and decades passed, historical documents and personal correspondence, and even works of fiction with vampiric themes. I wasn’t the first to peruse the literature. Most entries had already been marked by others.

The pamphlet paper was thick, able to withstand a certain amount of folding and unfolding. There were several more copies of this particular item in the box, amongst many other pamphlets and fliers. This one was filed under ‘Dawnguard’.

_The work of hunting vampires is best left to the insane._

I eyed the pamphlet skeptically.

_Most people, if they try to hunt a vampire, will more likely become prey than predator._

“Is this a recruiting standard?” I whispered to myself.

_It’s not that most people aren’t strong or smart enough (though this is often true), it’s that most people aren’t focused enough._

_The vampire doesn’t understand family, love, or hope. It only understands the desire to feed._

“Well that’s certainly not true.” I recalled the vampires I had met at the fortress in Whiterun Hold. Even the insane ones had feelings, and one had definitely felt love.

_Thus the vampire hunter must behave like his prey. He must abandon all love, all hope, all memory of family or friends. Anything that might distract his mind from the primary goal must be shed like dead skin._

“ _Nonsense_ ,” I murmured in English, but kept reading.

_The vampire hunter must become a predator’s predator, unrecognized and unrecognizable. Anything less, and he will quickly become food for his prey – or worse, he will be turned into the same monster he wants to destroy._

“Ahh, the old recruitment paper.” Gunmar sat himself down on the bench across the table from me. “That’s the old symbol of the ‘guard, at the top.”

I slipped the pamphlet back where it belonged: hidden in an old box. “The Dawnguard is that old?”

“Sure. Lots of groups have been around for centuries. Fighters Guild. Thieves Guild.” The redhead leaned forward, and whispered, “Even something called the Dark Brotherhood.” He rolled his R’s often, but with his last sentence stressed the sound.

I leaned in to the man and whispered back, “What’s the Dark Brotherhood?”

He smiled, revealing less-than-perfect teeth. “Assassins. If you ever see someone dressed in tight-fitting black and red leather, run!” He chuckled.

My face scrunched, and I pulled out another piece of paper to read.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

“Anything that might be useful.” The flier I had pulled was just for simple recruitment. _Hate Vampires? Join the Dawn-Guard!_ “You’ve read the old recruitment papers?” I asked Gunmar.

“They’re basically the same as the current ones.”

I eyed the man as I carefully removed another document. “Are you insane?” I asked flatly.

Gunmar’s eyes widened, and then the man’s fist struck the table top and he nearly fell to his back with laughter.

“Ahh, that depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?” He quieted quickly, gaze fixed on the small box on the table. “It’s true, what it says on that pamphlet. The old one. Forget your family, your future.” I watched the fingers of his hands curl around his thumbs and squeeze. “The things I’ve seen in vampire lairs?” He slowly shook his head. “There’s no going home after that, anyway.”

I waited while the man was seemingly having a mild flashback. A moment later, his grip on his own thumbs weakened, and he relaxed.

So, Gunmar was not necessarily insane, but he clearly had issues with something that happened in his past, something involving vampires. At this point, who didn’t?

“The part about vampires,” I said, “not wanting anything but food, do you think that’s true? The sky is dark now because vampires want to hunt more easily. But perhaps it’s more than that. If vampires were without other desires or goals, they would just hunt at night like… like nighttime animals do. But instead they do something to change the entire world. Is that not what many people do? Start wars to change the world? Those people are not without goals.”

“ _Hmph_. You’re thinking too hard. It’s not that—”

Though Gunmar kept talking, my attention was ripped away. My gaze shifted to nothing, and my vision blanched. Sound was muffled. I could hear Gunmar talking, but it was just vibrations.

 _A cascade of black silk veils its sallow visage. Why does it still live? Weak, it cries out,_ Dria ze, dria ze! _They thought it was dead, but death is not a gift its kind easily accepts. It is the last of its kin. End it, now!_

A vision of red, flashing eyes startled me, sending me to my feet with my right hand grasping Dawnbreaker. Gunmar looked at me with confusion, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.

Vampire. _Vampire!_

Meridia was with me. We were wearing armor. Good. We trotted out of the library, letting our feet flow swiftly down the many steps. They had it in the entrance, and were moving quickly to the dungeon, a place we had not yet been. But we knew where it was. We saw it in our mind.

We followed the few people allowed into the depths, the secret place in which Isran was waiting. A bloody place. A place of cleansing and discovery. No one stopped us. No one could. We would be there when they bled the truth from its veins.

A heavy door slammed, and a strong hand gripped my right wrist.

“ _You’re_ not supposed to be here,” Isran growled.

“Meridia says otherwise,” we retorted.

I swooned slightly as my vision returned to normal, no longer clouded by white.

“Oh, she does, hm?” The Dawnguard leader threw down my arm, spun me half around, and shoved me into two large guards. “Take her out.”

I felt the magic surging again. I was not at its helm.

“No!” The protest was accentuated by a sizzle of lightning magic that cloaked my body, though only for a moment. I turned back to Isran. “I saw her! The vampire in the metal box.” I motioned to an area around the corner, deeper in the dungeon.

I could feel her. I could feel the vampire. She was weak, so very weak, but that just made her all the more dangerous. I could sense the rage in her slow-beating heart.

I could not leave. Meridia would not let me leave. But both guards grabbed my upper arms, one of them twisting far too roughly. The pain was sufferable. The pain didn’t matter.

“Meridia has commanded me to kill her, Isran. She commands me to kill _all_ vampires. This one, though, this one is different. She is not one of Torug’s. I think you know that. I can feel her power. Can you? If she knows something I will hear it. Let me stay!”

“I do not take orders from Daedra Lords!” the Redguard spat back.

“I heard her voice in my mind, in the vision Meridia sent to me.” I turned to a guard. “Did you hear her speak? Did you understand her? I know what she speaks is not Norren, not as we know it.” I turned back to Isran. “Meridia understands, and through her so will I.”

Isran huffed as he stared me down, nostrils flaring and silver eyes searing. The guards once again gripped me hard and began to turn me around.

“Wait,” I heard Isran mutter. I shoved one of the guards off of me and turned back around. The Dawnguard leader approached slowly, arms crossed. “No one but my men know what’s in the ‘metal box’. And they know not to talk.” He continued to stare. “And you just—” he shrugged “—saw it?”

“I told you. Meridia is in my head. She shows me things. I _know_ things. I am also Dragonborn. Even without Meridia I would have sensed the vampire. It is _what I do._ "

It came down to a staring contest between me and the silver-eyed commander. A moment later, Isran waved me forward. He turned and walked around the bend into what was obviously a torture chamber. A stretching rack, an iron maiden, a table with four iron manacles, various chains and hooks, and dozens of tools of the trade strewn about. The smell of blood and putrid mess was overwhelming. I reeled, but righted myself immediately.

One of the guards moved in to unlock the box. Only then did I see the enchantment, the tell-tale shimmer fluttering across the lid.

“You enchanted the box,” I noted.

Isran grunted. “Magical shield. A ward, of sorts. We put a band around its neck that does the same.”

“A band around her neck? To block the use of magic?” A collar. An anti-magic collar.

“Yeah. An invention of one of our mages. Everything here,” he motioned around the room, “the shackles, the cages – all enchanted with the same spell.”

“Where do you get all the soul gems for that?” I asked.

“I told you. The Dawnguard has agents everywhere _._ ” The man put a hand on my shoulder and urged me to step back, and both guards followed, readying their weapons. Isran cast an orb of golden light around himself. I cast Stoneflesh, and removed Dawnbreaker from her sheath.

“Open it,” commanded Isran.

My heart was pounding. My breathing stilled. Despite the magic-suppressing enchantments I could feel the power of the vampire. Meridia’s whispers of _kill, kill her, it needs to die_ filled my ears and tightened my muscles.

Wait. Wait. She might have information. That is what they brought her here for.

A guard lifted the lid, and Isran stepped forward. From against the near wall he pulled a long metal rod. Slowly, he moved forward until I heard a loud _clink_ , after which he quickly stepped back. With the metal rod forcing both a link and a separation between him and the vampire, he yanked upward.

“Get up,” he muttered to the vampire, as if she would understand. “Get up!” he repeated, pulling hard enough for the vampire to be forced into a seated position. It was immediately apparent that she was naked, at least from the waist up but for a wide leather strap covering her upper body and pinning her arms to her sides.

A black leather sack, tucked under what I assumed was the enchanted collar, covered her head without any hole for sight or breath. I wondered if vampires breathed. I knew that their hearts pumped their undead blood. Perhaps this unique magic kept their organs working.

The vampire just sat there, unmoving. I couldn’t tell if the noncompliance was deliberate or because this vampire felt half-dead. Half re-dead. Half unalive.

Isran was a burly man. Shorter than his nephew Altanir but much, much thicker. In an impressive display of frenzied muscles, Isran used the metal rod, attached to the vampire’s collar, to force her to her feet. Her hands were bound behind her back. The two guards sheathed their weapons and helped Isran hoist the vampire out of the box.

Her lower body was completely exposed. Dried, crusted blood flaked from her thigh and buttocks, but no wounds were apparent. She was as pale as any other light-skinned human vampire. Lines of dark veins could be seen beneath her thin, taught skin. Sallow, the word Meridia had used. Yes.

The three men half-dragged the vampire to the table with four iron manacles and quickly shackled her ankles. Leaving her arms bound behind her back, they instead used an enchanted chain to fasten her collar to the table. I could only imagine the discomfort of laying in this manner, with arms and hands pressing the midsection upward.

As much as I wanted to exterminate the creature in front of me, I didn’t approve of what I was seeing. They were treating the vampire worse than any criminal should be treated. Meridia didn’t approve either; she wanted the vampire dead, now. I could feel her bloodlust. Her desires nearly became my own. I pushed them aside.

Confident in our safety, I sheathed Dawnbreaker and allowed my weak spell of Stoneflesh to dissipate.

One of the guards untucked the leather sack covering the vampire’s head. Shoulder-length black hair clung to sickly pale skin, continuing to cover the vampire’s face.

My vision. She was definitely the vampire I saw.

I stepped forward and cleared the hair from her face. Isran did not stop me. I lifted an eyelid and was met with the same terrifying red and gold iris that Ralof had, the same as every vampire I came across. There was a slight difference, but without directly comparing to other vampires, I could not tell what.

But her face was completely human. There was no red line drawn down the center of the face, no scrunched nose or creased forehead. Eyes closed, she appeared as any other nearly dead Nord or _Harstene_ might.

Beyond the lack of facial distortion, her skin set her apart, too. She had the appearance of being exsanguinated, half-mummified. A humanoid raisin. To the touch she was cold, but dry. I half expected her to be clammy, drenched in sickly sweat.

She did not react to my touch. She did not react to anything.

The more I examined her, the more details I noticed. Scars, small and discrete with evidence of healing, littered her body. But there was a long, fresher scar that ran the length of her left inner thigh. It had not been stitched, yet no infection was apparent.

That she was completely without clothing concerned me. The worrying scar following her femoral artery worried me more. What had the Dawnguard done to her?

I turned to a guard. “Was she like this when you found her? Naked? Cut?”

“We weren’t there,” the guard answered.

“They’re not field agents,” said Isran, “but yes. My report says they found it naked and in a cage, chained to the bars. The cage itself was enchanted, probably with the same spell we use.”

“An enchanted cage?” I recalled the fortress where vampires were held by The Summoner and her students. “Were there mages, there? Performing experiments on vampires?”

“Experiments?” Isran’s expression said he doubted this, but he dug out the paper from a back pocket and re-read what I assumed was the agent’s report. “No. Nothing was there. Just the vampire.”

“No journals or, I don’t know, evidence that more vampires were there?”

“No, nothing. Just this vampire, in a cage. Oh, and a bucket stained with dried blood.”

Blood. That explained it, then. I turned back to the vampire on the table. “She was bled.”

A part of me sang with joy. The other part remembered Garthek and his sword, cutting my own inner thighs in long, slow lines. I could have bled out. I almost died from the subsequent infection.

“Why was she bled?” I asked myself.

“I don’t know,” answered Isran, “but it isn’t any good to us like this.”

“You mean, she needs to drink.”

“Not yet,” the man said. “Let it sit for a while. It isn’t going anywhere.”

The men made to leave, but I was hesitant. I was worried. I was fearful. “I don’t want her tortured,” I announced, making a demand I had no right to make. Meridia was not pleased. I could feel it. “And,” I continued, agitated and sympathetic, “can we please put some clothing on her? Something.”

Isran laughed as he turned back around. “I thought you wanted it killed. Needed to know it was dead. It doesn’t need clothing. It would make the interrogation harder, anyway.”

I nearly shouted a response, but became stuck. I did want her dead. I did. The vampire needed to die. But not before I got the answers I strongly suspected she had.

“I want to speak with her,” I said, “when, if she recovers. I will feed her myself, if I have to.”

“No,” Isran said flatly. “Animal blood only. You want to talk to it? Fine. I’ll let you know when it’s awake.” He swept out an arm toward the exit, inviting me to leave.

. . . . . .

After twenty-four days of waiting, worrying, and annoying Isran for updates, my family and the rest of Riften’s survivors arrived at Fort Dawnguard.

Bird, tall and distinct with his silken hair, stood out from the crowd that flowed into the valley at the base of the fort. I ran down the front entrance steps and wove my way to the man. He like everyone else was on foot, likely leaving the carts behind at the stables. The ground leveled out, and I lost him in the chaos.

I heard an infant cry, and I knew it was my Virald. I followed his voice. The crowd began to disperse.

“Bird!?” I called, still swimming against the tide.

“Deb!” came a shout. “Here!”

I broke to my right and nearly crashed into a burly, cantankerous Nord. I ignored his glare and continued, finally spotting the top of Bird’s head again.

Without warning, I attack-hugged Bird from the side. Passing us were J’zargo and Azijjan, and their kittens. I then saw Marcurio and Morgana with the children, and—

“Alessandra!” I gasped the woman’s name as I spotted Marcurio’s mother, looking healthy and completely unscathed. Though she and I barely knew one another, I hugged her, too.

“Eh, hello, Deborah, dear.” The priestess stiffly patted my back. This was only our second meeting, and the first where I was not despondent.

“Hel-lo,” called a quiet, unfamiliar voice from behind Alessandra. It was Ash. He was grinning. He had spoken a Norren word. “Safe?” he added, as if asking a question.

“Safe,” I confirmed, nodding. I couldn’t help myself. I hugged him too.

 

“Any problems?” I asked my family as I walked with them to their designated temporary residence inside the fort’s underground safehouse.

“No, nothing,” replied Marcurio. “We saw a strange, black dog, but one of the Dawnguard people killed it. Though this one—” he pointed his thumb at his mother “—scared me to death when I saw her.”

Alessandra scoffed. “It isn’t my fault no one thought to look for me in my Hall. I had twenty-six people with me down there. Eh, live ones, not corpses. They were lucky I keep a stock of food at all times.”

“Did the vampires not attack your Hall?” I asked the priestess.

“I believe my wards and repellant magic helped keep them away, yes. Though, perhaps the smell of bodies and ashes covered that of the living. Or perhaps I was just lucky.”

Her tone, much like Marcurio’s, conveyed a high sense of confidence, with an added grouchiness my friend had warned me about. She knew she wasn’t just lucky. She was a highly skilled mage.

“But the food would not have lasted,” Alessandra continued. “We apparently have you to thank for the Dawnguard’s rescue.” She offered a terse nod in appreciation.

When we arrived at a room with empty bunkbeds, a Dawnguard officer escorted my family to their assigned area. I was allowed to continue sleeping in the above-ground barracks. After they were settled with what few belongings they had, I sat with Marcurio and Bird on the edge of one of their assigned beds. Morgana and Ash played with the children on the floor.

Marcurio grasped my hand. “We do have some news, though,” he murmured.

I turned to him. “News?” I swallowed a growing lump in my throat.

“Do you prefer the good or the bad, first?” he asked.

“Just… tell me, please,” I grumbled.

“Alright. Well….” Marcurio sat up straight. He was tense. “The city. Riften, it… it was burned.”

I bit my tongue.

“Some think it might have been a dragon,” he continued, “but it looked more like fireball damage to me.”

I bit my tongue harder.

“It’s not the entire city,” Bird explained, “just the area near the market, and our neighborhood.”

“Most of everything is gone,” Marcurio continued, his grip on my hand tightening, “but I managed to find a few things before the Dawnguard made us leave.”

Bird placed something lightweight on my thigh. It was a small journal, the one I had begun in Riften, in which I kept track of Virald’s age. Only a few pages were used. I gripped the leather-bound treasure, squeezing tight, and closed my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whispered. _Tell them, Deb. Damn it._ “Listen, I—”

“And we saw a dragon,” Bird blurted.

I turned to my friend, wide-eyed. “You said there were no problems.”

“There were no problems,” Marcurio affirmed. “Except for the fire, but that happened before we left. We can’t know when.”

“The dragon didn’t do anything,” said Bird, “never even made a sound. It just flew near us, always to the north, far enough away so that no one could attack it. It left once we reached the valley we’re in now.”

“We think it was your dragon, Deb,” said Marcurio, “the red one you mentioned. Unless of course there are two red dragons that like to help people.”

“When I was still a courier,” said Bird, “everyone I ever talked to who saw a dragon said they were green or brown. Or light blue. Never red.”

“Just… be careful,” I murmured. “All dragons are dangerous.”

“But do you think it could have been your dragon?” asked Marcurio.

“I don’t know, Marc.” I clutched the journal to my chest. “You said it was north?”

Marcurio nodded. “The entire time we were traveling.”

North. Windhelm was north. “Perhaps… perhaps he was protecting you, from northern attacks. He protected me.”

Ash laughed loudly at Flavia’s beard-grabbing antics. Virald giggled, too. The scene warmed my heart.

“He learned some words,” I said to Marcurio and Bird, about Ash. “What about magic?”

Marcurio shook his head. “No magic. But, give him time. It takes time.”

Morgana raspberried Virald’s tummy, a trick I had taught Marcurio long ago. He must have passed on the silly custom. Virald approved.

“Onmund is here,” I said casually as I watched the young ones ignore life’s worries.

The men on either side of me gasped, and Marcurio, ever-watchful, cast the purple-hued life-detecting spell.

“Not _here_ here, Marc,” I corrected, “but here. In this fort.”

Bird tensed, and stood. He pushed his long hair back with a fidgety hand. Marcurio and I watched him pace. Bird had been rather distraught about the concept of someone able to spy on him, on anyone. He knew of the possibility, but never before had heard of it being implemented. Invisible people was a sort of phobia for the man, and Onmund had just reinforced the fear.

“What is he doing here!?” Bird whisper-screamed.

“He joined the Vigilants of Stendarr a while ago,” I related, “was ‘cleansed’ by them. But the vampires are hunting and killing Vigilants. He’s a… he’s taking shelter here, now, like everyone else. He reads all day in the library. Wants to help, apparently.”

“So,” Marcurio said, “no more Sanguine. No more….” My usually tactful friend made a very subtle penile masturbatory motion for a fraction of a second. A tiny smirk accompanied his blushing.

I sighed. “No, Marc. Apparently not.” A moment later, I added, “But… be alert. I don’t trust him.”

. . . . . .

“The vampire is awake,” announced a quiet voice immediately behind me.

Isran’s guards had found me in the library, reading old texts with Altanir and Onmund. The men sitting across the table from me had not heard the guard, and looked at me with curiosity when I stood.

I had already told Altanir about the vampire. He was part of whatever team I traveled with, now. I trusted him. I trusted his opinion. And, perhaps most importantly, I knew he would protect me if necessary. Onmund, however, I could never trust again. He could cure cancer and I still would not trust him. I left him to his books.

The guards had protested, but I demanded they allow Altanir to accompany me into the dungeons. Isran needed me, and I wanted Altanir to be there when I interrogated this vampire.

Walking into the same dungeon room, I was horrified at the scene. The vampire, still completely naked and strapped to the same table, was painted with blood that had spilled across her lower face and onto her chest and shoulders. The blood had pooled on the stone floor and was partially cleaned, but smeared remnants had since browned.

Altanir, sensitive to smell, initially hung back, acclimatizing.

I side-stepped the mess and approached Isran. “What are you doing to her?”

“What does it look like?” he said. “It’s rejecting the animal blood. Tried cow and horse twice now. Even a little dead man’s blood. It keeps vomiting, and mumbling something. This is where you’re needed, Dragonborn. Or is it ‘Champion’.” He uttered my second title with a certain dryness.

Ignoring his tone, I noted, “And she is still without clothes. This is disgusting, Isran. Have you been torturing her, too?”

Isran pursed his lips. “Unless you consider force-feeding torture, no.”

Trying to ignore the vulgarity of the situation, I approached the table. The vampire squirmed slightly, and faint, disapproving facial twitches suggested awareness of her situation.

“You said she spoke,” I recalled. “What did she say?”

“We don’t know,” said Isran.

“You didn’t write it down?” I asked. “The sounds?”

Isran shook his head.

Sighing, I looked back at the vampire. Her eyelids were trembling, attempting to lift. Her skin was still sunken, thin and pale. I wondered how much blood a vampire could lose before they died, or if they could ever die this way. Perhaps they needed to be decapitated like those vampires in Whiterun, or set aflame, turned to ash. I also wondered why anyone would want to bleed a vampire dry. Torture? Necromancy? Hopefully the Dawnguard researchers were asking the same questions.

“ _Nik ze h-halga.”_

The whisper came from the vampire. Her lips had barely moved.

“What was that?” Isran asked.

 _Don’t touch me_. Meridia was telling me the answer. The words were like Norren, but not Norren. They were also like dragonspeak, but not. She was speaking a dialect no one here knew.

 _Don’t touch me_. I assumed the vampire thought I was going to do horrible things to her. “She said ‘don’t touch me’.”

Isran and a guard chuckled, which both annoyed and horrified me.

“ _Ni-ik ze halga, d—d’vvvafan.”_

_Don’t touch me… dragon? Dragon kin?_

I didn’t know if the translation was accurate, but I had no reason to disbelieve Meridia. “She can barely speak,” I said to the men. “I think you need to give her the blood of a person. An alive person.”

Isran was still chuckling. “Not going to happen.”

“Just do it,” Altanir breathed, clearly exasperated. “You are walking the long path, uncle, an’ you don’t need to. Feed her. Question her. Kill her. It is all very easy.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Isran countered.

“I did,” I said, stepping up to the Dawnguard leader. “I want his opinion.”

“Deborah told me that this vampire was different,” Altanir continued. “She was definitely correct.” The man’s gaze locked onto his uncle’s. “Different vampire, different rules.”

I turned back to the vampire and wondered how best to feed her. I wondered if I should be the one to do it. The urge to press my wrist to the pale, parted lips was hard to ignore. I wasn’t sure if that was safe, however, and cutting myself was not high on my list of favorite activities.

But slowly, and not of my own volition, my right hand edged closer to the vampire’s mouth. I allowed it.

The vampire’s face scrunched as if in pain. “ _Ni_ ,” she whispered. “ _Nik… di. Ni.”_

 _No_ , she was saying. _Not you. No._ My vision began to pale.

“Red, what are you doing?”

My hand was over her mouth, waiting. The roughness of shriveled lips grazed the soft flesh of my wrist.

“Hey,” a voice called. “Are her eyes white?”

“Stop!”

I was grabbed by a rough, strong hand and torn away from the tabled vampire. My vision returned to normal.

“Red,” came Altanir’s scolding voice, “we don’t know if this vampire can turn others with a bite! Besides, if anyone here needs all of their blood inside their body, it’s you.” While he was speaking Altanir had unsheathed one of his throwing knives. Quickly, too quickly for anyone to stop him, he sliced his wrist and hovered the wound above the vampire’s mouth.

It took Isran and his guards several seconds to notice what Altanir was doing. They yelled, and quickly pulled Altanir away from the vampire. Isran had enough compassion to heal his nephew’s wrist before smacking him upside the head. They stared daggers at each other, seconds away from mortal combat.

“ _Din fa-an…._ ” The small voice carried a bit further than earlier. _“Din fan… gred das._ ”

I stared at the vampire, processing the translated words that were floating around inside my mind. “Your kind did this,” I said, and looked from the vampire to Altanir and the others.

“Whose kind?” a guard asked.

I shrugged.

“ _Vi-il sssoth. Viiil soth!”_ The vampire had cried out, her voice breaking before muted whimpers took over.

“She wants more blood,” I related.

“No,” grumbled Isran.

“ _Vil soth.”_ The vampire’s eyes remained closed. Her lips trembled. _“Offfra ze vvvil soth, a-arth ze… ze ful… f-fug_.”

I glanced at Isran. “Give her more blood and she will talk.”

The leader was not convinced. “How can I be certain you truly know what it says? Does it even understand us? What we want?”

“ _Jeh_ ,” was her whispered answer.

I smirked at Isran. “Yes.”

Isran, expression full of disapproval, peered down his nose at the vampire. “If you understand us, count to three.”

We waited a moment, and soon the sweet whispers of verification filled the silence. _“Gei-iner, tivvver_ — _”_ she paused, taking a breath “—three.” To our surprise, the vampire finished the request in Norren.

Isran’s silver eyes widened briefly, but quickly reset into his permanent glare.

I leaned closer to the vampire, hopeful. “Do you understand me? Do you speak our language?”

“Blood,” she breathed, though the word was the same in her language and Norren. “Blood of _ulfman_. _Vil_.”

I didn’t want to translate, not in front of everyone in the room. But I turned to Altanir knowing full well that the vampire wanted more blood of the wolf-man. Somehow, she had tasted the lineage in his trickle of blood. Perhaps she smelled it, too.

“She wants more,” I said to Altanir, and then turned to Isran. “More of his blood.”

“ _Nik di_ ,” she murmured. “ _Neh di._ ” _Not you_. _Never you_.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, “not my blood.”

Altanir stepped forward, throwing knife at the ready. He looked to his uncle for approval.

After a moment of deliberation, Isran nodded his consent. Turning to me, he warned, “If this ends badly, it will be on your head.” He then turned away, missing my sneer.

As Altanir fed the vampire from a slow-dripping cut, I approached the Dawnguard leader.

“I want her cleaned,” I quietly demanded. “Clean her while bound, or move her to a cell and let her clean herself. Give her clothes. A cloak. Anything.”

“What I can’t understand,” Isran muttered, “is why the Champion of Meridia is making demands on behalf of a vampire.” He didn’t wait for my response. “If you want to clean it, I’m not going to stop you, but don’t for one moment think you have any standing here.”

Isran walked away to the front of the dungeon, leaving me, Altanir, and the guards to watch as color and volume slowly, very slowly returned to the vampire’s body.

“I think she will need more blood than you can give her,” I mentioned to Altanir.

He only nodded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harstene – Breton, “High Rock person”
> 
>  
> 
> The foreign language contained in this chapter is a fabricated Old Norren, based on a mix of Norren, Old Norse, Icelandic, and Dovahzul. All words are interpreted correctly by Deb/Meridia.
> 
> Dria ze – (Old Norren) kill me
> 
> Nik ze halga. - (Old Norren) Don't touch me.
> 
> Nik ze halga, dovafan. - (Old Norren) Don't touch me, Dragon-kin.
> 
> Ni, nik di, ni. - (Old Norren) No, not you, no.
> 
> Din fan gred das. - (Old Norren) Your kin did this.
> 
> Vil soth - (Old Norren) More blood.
> 
> Offra ze vil soth, arth ze ful fug. - (Old Norren) Give me more blood, and I will talk.
> 
> Jeh. - (Old Norren) Yes.
> 
> Geiner, tiver - (Old Norren) One, two.
> 
> Ulfman. Vil. - (Old Norren) Wolf-man/Werewolf. More.
> 
> Nik di. Neh di. - (Old Norren) Not you. Never you.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** PTSD, hints at physical abuse, active trigger

Altanir stared at his stein between sips. He was recovering well from the minor blood loss, and enjoying a fresh piece of fruitcake and honeyed water. Except for us, the dormitory was empty at the moment. The quiet was nice.

Alone, I could finally tell him what the vampire had called him. Wolf-man.

He smirked at the revelation, seemingly unsurprised. “Vampires smell very well. Likely taste, too. To vampires, werewolves taste very good, though apparently it’s not the same for a vampire’s taste to a werewolf.” He took another sip. “Redguards are supposed to taste nice and salty.” He laughed. “I suppose I am just a tasty mix.”

“And I smell bad, I suppose. Though, Torug said otherwise.”

“You smell fine, but I’m not a vampire. And you were with child then, on the mountain, yes? Perhaps Torug smelled your son, or just that you were with child. Pregnant women smell different. Perhaps, to a vampire, you normally smell horrible.”

Altanir, straight-faced and ignoring my silent reaction, finished his fruitcake and tossed the paper wrapping into the fire. He then poured himself more water from a jug, and asked, “Did you truly understand the vampire? Those words she said? You didn’t just say what you wanted her to say?”

“I heard the words, Altanir, and I knew them, like I know the words I am speaking now. I don’t know if it was from Meridia telling me the meanings, or….” I paused, sipped my water, and pondered. “Perhaps it was not Meridia at all. Kyne has helped me with words, before. But Kyne, the gods, they are separated from us, I think. Aetherius and magic, it is almost blocked. Enchantments are strong, though. But enchantments come mostly from Oblivion.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded. “That worries me. What if a vampire’s magic is from Oblivion, too, or somewhere completely different? Their magic will be stronger than ours, or at least the magic I know. Shouts, they are different, but also connected to Aetherius. If… if the gods are truly blocked from this world – Mundus? – then it might be the Daedra we have to pray to or… I don’t know. We might have to worry about them more, like Sanguine, and Hermaeus Mora.” I shuddered at the thought.

“But,” I continued, “it is Meridia who is with me, now, somehow inside of me. I hear her sometimes. Feel her. I think, through her, I know things. I understand.”

I stared at my cup. I stared some more. Talking about Meridia and the vampire’s words reminded me of other oddities of late. I was worried. Normally, I would have mentioned such things to Marcurio, but I hadn’t yet and he was elsewhere in the fortress. And I hated awkward silences.

“I’ve been hearing words this last month,” I said to Altanir, “words that I understand, but I don’t think I have ever heard before.”

“Which words?”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember. But when I heard them, I knew them, but did not recognize the sounds. Not all words, but some. It was the same with the vampire.” I took another sip. “I wonder why I could not have had this help years ago, when I came here.”

“Perhaps Meridia didn’t want to possess you, then. Or couldn’t.”

“Possessed.” I scoffed. “She does not control me.”

“Does she not?” The man locked eyes with mine, a silent suggestion that I consider the possibility.

“Do you think I’m being controlled?” I asked.

“I think, whenever your eyes turn white, yes, you are. At least somewhat controlled. They were white, just now, before I pulled you away from the vampire. You were going to feed her. I think when you were hit by the spell Isran uses to detect vampires, Meridia was with you then, perhaps defending you.” He picked at a flaking piece of leather on his trousers. “I think you need someone to watch you. It would be better to be a mage, perhaps, but a mage can’t smell a change in mood like I can, not unless they are a werebeast. Or a vampire.” He smirked.

I squinted at the man, unsure where his mind was going. “You want to guard me?”

Altanir stared at his stein and nodded, slowly. “Months ago, I spoke to your friends, Bird an’ Marc. They told me your house-servant died at High Hrothgar. They said you had liked her, very much. Felt safe around her. I’m not saying I want to be your house-servant. What I am saying, is that I’d like to travel with you, as I have done. I will not be your shield, but I will protect you, an’ protect others from you.”

“ _From_ me?”

“You’re possessed, Deborah. Daedra Lords can never be trusted, no matter how _astuga_ they may seem. Meridia is using you. I guarantee it. Do not lose yourself with her.”

The man took a long drink of water while eyeing me, unblinking. I had to look away, and stared at a piece of smoldering charcoal instead.

“I trust her,” I said, quiet. “Meridia. I don’t feel her, now. I don’t always feel her. Mostly, she is just with me when vampires are around. Though, her thoughts were heavy in my head, after the sky went dark and before we came here. Perhaps she wanted me to come here.” I stoked the fire with a long iron. “And I won’t stop you from traveling with me. You’re too useful.”

Altanir sputtered a laugh, and play-kicked my boot.

I laughed and kicked him back, but my smile quickly faded. While silently gazing at the embers beneath the gentle fire, a worry surfaced.

“What if she doesn’t know anything?” I asked, referring to the vampire.

I avoided looking at Altanir, avoided his overly-expressive eyes. I didn’t want to receive an answer to the question I wish I hadn’t asked. The man’s silence, however, was just as disconcerting.

. . . . . .

Three days and as many feedings later, the vampire was able to move inside her cell, and was coherent. With more of Altanir’s blood also came more understanding of his language. The vampire began to speak Norren with clarity. I wondered if she now knew Altanir’s mind, too, like I knew the minds of the dragons whose souls were now a part of me. Perhaps to hasten my language acquisition I should have been drinking Nord blood these last few years.

Perhaps not.

The vampire was given a bucket of water and rags to clean herself with, though the anti-magic collar she wore was too tight, and blood was still caked underneath. She was, however, given a blanket. When I arrived, she was snuggled against the stone wall of the cell, shielding herself from us with the thin fabric. Her face was expressionless, until she saw me.

Her eyes widened, and then narrowed. Her black hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing her still-pale complexion. But her eyes were no longer sunken, lips no longer shriveled, bone contours no longer visible. Whatever magic that kept this vampire alive after exsanguination had filled her back in. Other than her pallor and eyes, she looked perfectly human. An angry human. An angry, glaring human.

“I do not want her here,” she snapped. “ _Bua en brien._ ”

_Walk into a fire._ Nice. “I am warm enough, thank you.” I wondered if I looked as smug as I felt.

My response surprised her. She looked away.

“I do not want to harm you,” I half-lied.

“Your blood speaks differently.” She shot me another hard glance, and sneered. Her vampiric teeth were apparent, though they were merely oversized maxillary cuspids. “All people in this place want me dead. Harmed. Worse. _Ze minta di, skunvik._ I shall not be taken again.”

I rubbed away a pending headache and turned to the ever-watchful Isran. “What is she talking about? Taken?”

“Your blood-brother!” the vampire shrieked and jangled the iron bars between us. Her blanket, forgotten, floated to the dungeon floor, exposing her pale, nubile body. “ _Gruese_.”

_Traitor_.

The vampire began to shake with fresh sobs. Hands sliding down the bars, she sank onto the blanket. I took a step forward, but stopped when a hand shot back to the bar with a loud clunk. I feared the metal would crack under her grip.

“You said you would speak to us if we fed you,” I said.

From behind a veil of black hair sounded the vampire’s rapid, ragged breaths. “And now,” she rasped, “I am speaking. You have my gratitude.”

“Bring in Florentius,” Isran commanded his guards. “We’ll get it to talk.”

“No!” I turned to the leader. “No, no torture, Isran.”

The vampire chuckled low, but the sound quickly morphed into an unhealthy cackle. She threw her hair back and clutched the tresses with one hand behind her head. She was grinning through her laughter as if amused by a private joke. But soon her face distorted, pained by some silent tormentor. Her hand returned to the floor in front of her, bracing her weight. Her cackling slowed into weeping. Her fingers scrunched the blanket. I watched as the fabric began to tear.

“Perhaps,” she breathed, “negotiations are necessary.”

“We don’t negotiate with vampires,” said Isran.

“I do,” I declared. “I negotiate.” At a distance, I crouched in front of the vampire. “There is only one person I know who could be called my blood-brother.” I cocked my head, eyeing the vampire who likely stared right back from behind her hair. “You have met him, haven’t you?”

The rips in the blanket lengthened under the vampire’s grip.

“I suppose I smell like him,” I continued.

“Do not speak it,” she spat in a whisper.

I stood, and walked to the side of the onlooking Isran. Altanir, in the corner with the guards, watched in silence.

I felt tingling on my fingertips. My magic wanted out. Wanted out at the vampire. Meridia was itching for her to die.

Leaning against the opposing wall, I faced the cell and said, “Torug.”

The vampire screamed in rage and fear. The blanket was torn in two. She curled into herself, and wept once more.

I shared a silent glance with Isran and then left the dungeon.

 

I needed air. I needed clean, mountain valley air. The hatred I had felt from the vampire, the hatred I had felt _for_ the vampire, and the restraint it took to not shoot her dead with lightning had drained me to exhaustion. I wasn’t going to admit this to Altanir, but he had been right. Meridia nearly won over me. I had nearly killed the vampire. Instead, I antagonized her. I had not meant to do so.

“I thought you didn’t want to torture the vampire,” Altanir called from behind me.

On I walked through the corridors, then up around the long spiral staircase that would take me to the battlements.

“She’s obviously broken,” he continued. “An’ she definitely knows Torug. Knew him. She was ready to negotiate information until you mentioned him. Blood-brother? Another Dragonborn, she meant, I suppose. He did something to her. I don’t think I want to know what. But she knows something, I am sure of it.”

The man huffed behind me as I trotted up the stairs. “It’s amazing how she learned our language from my blood. Or perhaps she always knew it, an’ was too weak to remember. Either way, I don’t know what language that is. Even those in High Rock are understandable.”

I opened a door to a fresh but dark world. The vista would have been spectacular were it not for the foreboding canopy of clouds, but at least I was no longer breathing in rust and blood.

Altanir held his tongue long enough for me to relax. I leaned forward against the parapet. I breathed deep. Again. Again.

“I will wait until tomorrow to speak with her again,” I said. “Will Isran interrogate her without me there?”

“He doesn’t need you to understand her, anymore. He will do what he must to find answers. He respects you for being Dragonborn an’ wanting to help, but he won’t wait, an’ won’t take orders from you. If he wants answers now, he will get answers now.”

Distant, happy laughter interrupted our conversation. We waited for the sound to pass.

“I want to talk to her alone,” I said. “At least without Isran in the room.”

“I’m not sure you should be the one to talk to her.”

“But I need—”

“You being there made her lose herself.” Altanir’s blatant concern for the vampire was unexpected. “Anyone can get information. It does not have to be you.”

“I don’t trust Isran.”

“An’ you shouldn’t. Vampires make him kind of….” Altanir flourished his fingers around his ears and snorted through a laugh. “I’ll ask him if I can be there when he questions her. At the very least, I can negotiate information with my blood.”

I forced a half smile. It wasn’t a horrible idea, especially if my very presence disturbed the vampire. “Alright, Altanir. Be my ears, and my voice if you need to. I just… I don’t want her to be tortured. Witches did that, in a fortress in Whiterun. They cast spells at vampires, fed them dead men’s blood which made them crazy. It was awful. I don’t want that for her. She has information, or she does not. When the time comes for her to die, cut off her head. It is the best way. The fastest way.”

“I know that, Red.” He smiled, and the faint lavender tattoos on his face danced, briefly.

I huffed through my nose, and looked away. “Keep calling me ‘Red’, and I will have to call you something, too. Wolf-man.”

Altanir chuckled, and walked away.

. . . . . .

After a much-needed breather on the battlements, I searched for my family for some much-needed baby cuddles. Magic helped me find them by the paddock behind the stables. Bird, Morgana, and the children were watching Honey’s colt play and frolic while the other horses attempted to ignore him.

“Derra!” Flavia called once she spotted me. She pointed, and smiled.

“Hey, Deb,” said Bird before side-hugging me. I returned the gesture. He indicated Honey. “Is that her? Stenvar’s mare?”

I nodded. “Yeah. And her colt. I still need to name him.”

“Ooh, I love naming animals,” said Morgana. “What do you think, Flavia? What shall we name the baby horse?”

“Baby big,” said the toddler.

We smiled at the girl’s response. She continued to babble to Morgana, who held her up against the fence. The child reached out toward the overactive colt, but he kept his distance.

“What have you been doing?” Bird asked.

“Researching,” was my answer.

“Mm. Learned anything?”

I sighed. “Maybe.” The colt laid himself down on the grass before teetering over and rolling around. “Where is Marc? And Ash?”

“Practicing, somewhere. Alessandra’s with them, too. She was quickly found by another priest of Arkay. Perhaps they’re with the other mages.”

“And the beds are alright in the safehouse? There is enough food?”

“Everything is fine, Deb. There are stewards to look after us. We were lucky, though. Not everyone has a bed. This,” he said, nodding, “this was a good plan. Everyone feels safer. And everyone has the chance to help. Like Marc and his mother. J’zargo wants to help the mages, too, but his kittens are difficult and he can’t leave Azijjan.”

“And you? Do you think you might join the Dawnguard? They use couriers.”

Bird smiled, and chuckled. “No, I won’t be any good to them in that way. I prefer this,” he nodded at Flavia, and patted Virald who was snuggled against his chest in a sling. My son was sleeping soundly, otherwise I would have asked to hold him.

“Dad duty?” I asked, smiling.

The man’s wide grin lit up the paddock.

Morgana and Flavia giggled again at the colt’s antics. And finally, after what must have been a long time waiting, the colt approached Flavia’s outstretched hand and pressed his muzzle against the palm.

The colt quickly backed off and half-reared a few times before trotting away. Flavia squealed in delight.

“Perhaps I should give the colt to Flavia,” I said.

Bird laughed. “She can barely say ‘horse’. She’s too young.”

“She will be old enough to at least sit on him, soon, with help. And the colt probably can’t be ridden for many months, yet.”

“Is the horse even yours to give?”

I turned to my friend, and then back to the colt. I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to. Instead, I groaned, and said, “Why is it so difficult to name a horse? I cannot think of anything good. Cloud. Milk. Storm. Boring names.”

Flavia babbled, and then said, “ _Kak_ ,” assumingly meaning _kas_ , horse. Morgana corrected her.

I heaved a sigh as I leaned against my tall friend’s boney shoulder. “Let Flavia name the horse.”

I turned my gaze to Virald, who yawned but did not wake. His open-mouthed sleep face made all earlier stresses temporarily melt away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> astuga - benevolent
> 
> Bua en brien - (Old Norren) Go into a fire.
> 
> Ze minta di, skunvik - (Old Norren) I know you, creature.
> 
> Gruese - (Old Norren) Traitor/Betrayer
> 
> kas - horse


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** hints at physical, emotional, and sexual abuse

The vampire no longer cowered from me, nor yelled or banged on the iron cell bars. She was calm, monotonous, despondent. She had been speaking with Altanir, and only Altanir, demanding to be left alone with him as, according to her, he was the only one there who did not want her dead. How she could sense that was still a mystery.

But now, because of whatever Altanir had said to her, she agreed to speak with me, too. Isran and his guards, however, could not be present if we wanted her cooperation. Isran had been furious at the prospect, initially, claiming Altanir and I were both overly sympathetic to the vampire. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

The vampire was now fully covered in worn, heavy fabric. The tunic and trousers sagged, but at least she was clothed. She was not given a new blanket.

“Altanir has told me,” she began, looking at her feet, “that you, too, were made victim by the Orsimer.”

Orsimer. Orc. Torug. “Yes. He tried to—kill me. He and his vampires, and some people called Blades killed my friends. Family.”

The vampire examined the fingernails of her left hand. I wondered if vampire nails ever broke, or grew. If their hair grew. If they needed to bathe, or urinate. The lack of a bucket in her cell suggested waste production was not a concern.

“It would seem,” she said, “that you, this Dawnguard, and I share an enemy.”

I pulled a chair closer to her cell. Altanir remained in a corner, standing.

“I thought I had killed him.” My fingers pressed into a patch of leather on my trousers. “Almost one year ago. I sent him over the side of a mountain. But… he was a vampire, then. I saved my own life, but did not end his.”

“No vampire can be destroyed in this manner. But, I suppose you know this. Hunter.”

“Decapitation,” said Altanir. “Strong magic.”

“Holy light,” the vampire added, offering me a sharp glance. She looked away. “Molag Bal created him. Pure-blooded. A new bloodline.” She sighed, and then added, “I am the last of mine. We… killed them all. That was the plan. This was the _only_ plan. But the castle was not enough. He wanted a kingdom. A country. More, always more, as if Bal himself fed his mind the desires. But perhaps that is a trait of the dragon-blooded. Always taking, taking, taking.”

“That isn’t what I do,” I protested. “I don’t take. I don’t want anything except to live my life.”

She scoffed. “That is what all want. Sometimes desires conflict, and war is to be had.”

I looked to Altanir, who just shrugged. To the vampire, he said, “Tell Deborah what you told me. About the sky.”

“The sky,” she lilted. “ _Sotha lot_. I have only told you how, not why. It was not necessary for us, His children. Only flesh exposed to the sun burned, and only but a little. Weakened and annoyed, yes. Harmed, no. But lesser ones can die, if exposed. The Orsimer wanted more for them. He wanted a world for them. He wanted freedom. I opposed, and he chained me where he found me, where he, I, and his children had been living, in the cavern. The children were not mine. I held no dominion. After he left, to them I was given. Chained. Cold. Wet. Weeping, bloody, raw, beaten, used filthed marred mocked _broken_ again and again and _again_ and—”

She halted her speech. Her grappling fingernails tore into the flesh of her own arm. When she relaxed, the tiny wounds healed themselves.

“He,” she continued, “he found it. The bow. How…. We did not know what would happen. It was a guess. He fulfilled the prophecy with every drop.”

“Torrr—the… orc,” Altanir said to me, unable or prohibited from uttering Torug’s name, “he bled Serana dry, used her blood to corrupt an enchanted bow, and then used that bow to shoot an arrow at the sun. This is what turned the sky dark, hid the sun. Her blood. All of her blood. She thinks if he had just cut her an’ put _some_ of her blood on the bow or an arrow, the sky would have been made dark, but not forever. The last cut, the big one that was on her leg, that was unable to heal because she was—well, not dead, but, you know, not… not—”

 “Alive,” the vampire said. “I am alive, wolf-man. I breathe, I bleed, and I die. My body merely works differently than yours.”

I sat back in the chair, digesting the abundance of information. So the vampire had indeed been exsanguinated. Abused. Left to rot, if vampires could rot.

“Did, did you say….” I looked to Altanir and then the vampire. “Serana, was it? Is that your name?”

The vampire gave a terse nod. “Though I never thought the sound of my own name would sicken me so.”

“Do you,” Altanir started, “want us to call you by another?”

She shook her head. “It is my name. I will stomach it.”

“Ssso,” I said, “an enchanted bow. And a prophecy? How did he – what prophecy is this? Is there a way to end it? Or, to make the sky normal again?”

“Perhaps,” said Serana.

“Perhaps!?” I repeated.

“Nothing was written about its prevention,” she said, “or how to return the sun to the land. Though since the bow was needed to fulfill the prophecy, the bow is likely needed to reverse it. An assumption, I admit.”

“And where is this bow?” Altanir asked.

“With him? In my home?” She sighed. “I cannot know. It is an immortal creation – of the Aedra. The Bow of Auriel. It cannot be destroyed. It can, however, be hidden. Anywhere. Mountain. Ocean. Oblivion, perhaps. He had help locating it, because someone created a trail, long ago. Knowing him as I do… there will be no trail.”

Altanir stepped to my side. “And if he is stupid enough to keep it with him? Where is this castle? Your home? Is it far?”

“I cannot tell you how far,” she said, turning her gaze to the man, “for I know not where we are.”

Altanir crossed his arms, unamused.

The vampire gave a weak smirk, and relented. “An island, off the northwest coast of Skyrim. Half of one day, on the water. Mist from the cold sea hides the land. Those who find it do not leave.”

Northwest coast. The exact opposite corner of Skyrim from Fort Dawnguard.

“And the vampires, that’s where they’re hiding?” I leaned forward. “Besides the ones who are in Windhelm.”

“Windhelm?” she repeated. “They have taken the great city?” She huffed a laugh. “With their new freedom, I doubt his vampires will hide away in one place. He might be in Windhelm, or my castle, but he will not be alone. There are hundreds who follow him, now. They see him as their creator. A god. Molag Bal helped him to achieve this. Their souls are His. Every one of them.”

Serana fell quiet, and Altanir and I exchanged glances.

“You will need an army to even see him,” she continued. “And mages. _Many_ mages. Necromancers.”

“Necroma-ancers!” In my shock, I had practically squealed the word, voice catching slightly on the third syllable. Altanir and Serana eyed me inquisitively. “I, eh, I’ve had experience with necromancers. And necromancy. I-I don’t…” Staring into Serana’s glowing, bloody eyes gave me a chill. I released a weary sigh, and my gaze fell to the floor. “No, you’re right. To fight vampires, we need those who might be able to control them. Though, Restoration magic will harm them.”

“Indeed,” said Altanir. “The Dawnguard has a small army of warriors, but they are always recruiting, and the mages are too few. If we can find more mages an’ teach them the spells used to fight the undead, here or at outposts, we will fare much better in battle. The Dawnguard is already attempting to contact the College of Winterhold, but their numbers are few. Some have suggested seeking out any remaining Telvanni instead of attempting travel into Cyrodiil to look for remnants of the mage guilds an’ colleges there.”

“Telvanni?” I asked. “That sounds familiar.”

“Dunmeri mages,” he explained. “Powerful, an’ many of them apparently practice necromancy.”

“I have heard that Dunmer claim a strong connection to Oblivion,” said Serana. “It is the same with vampires.”

Altanir gave a nod. “Most of the Telvanni would either be in Morrowind – which is still a mess an’ full of Argonians – or on Solstheim.”

“Solstheim?” Serana looked to Altanir, brow furrowed. “Why would elves be on that island?”

He shrugged. “It is their home. Some of them. A refuge from Morrowind.”

“I have heard that Morrowind is a terrible place,” Serana noted, “but why is a refuge necessary? You mentioned Argonians?” She shivered, and scrunched her nose. “I met one, once. Smelled of fish.”

I turned to Altanir, equally ready for a history lesson.

The man’s stature sunk somewhat, but he complied. “About two hundred years ago, a volcano in Morrowind broke out. The land was basically destroyed. Skyrim gave Solstheim to Morrowind, out of pity.” Altanir squinted at Serana. “Everyone knows this.” He turned to me. “Is she one of yours?”

“Mine?” I asked.

“From _Latè_ ,” he elaborated, but turned back to Serana. “Where were you born?”

“In my castle north of Skyrim, which I have already explained is my home. But I will relieve you of your confusion.” Serana groaned when she stood, and flexed her limbs. She walked up to the cell bars and gripped them loosely. “I was born in the twenty-four hundred and seventh year of the First Era. By my mother I was hidden and set to sleep when I was over three hundred years old. I stopped counting the years, after a while. If what I was told is the truth, that this is the Fourth Era, then I slept for a very long time. So, you will forgive me my ignorances.”

“That must be….” Altanir shifted his weight to the other food. He shifted it back. “More than one thousand years. So, the language—”

“Is the language of northwestern Skyrim,” she finished. “Or, it was. I suppose it has changed. Your words are not all that different, if not a bit more blunt on the tongue. Many sounds from the Atmorans must have re-entered the language.” She shook her head dismissively.

“How did you learn it?” I asked her. “Was it from Altanir’s blood?”

She nodded. “In part, yes. With blood comes a certain knowing. A… connection. But not all vampires have this trait. From my discussions with your blood-brother,” she said to me, “it seems knowing by blood and knowing by soul are not very different. He understands the dragons taken into him. I understand my—those from whom I feed.”

As Serana spoke, I had noticed a certain speech pattern that was unlike the people I have known in Skyrim. Words she used were understandable, even though several were previously unfamiliar to me. I granted this understanding to Meridia, though I wondered how much of the clarity was due to Serana’s careful diction.

“You said, ‘in part’,” Altanir noted. “A connection. What did drinking my blood do to you? To me? What is the other part?”

“The other part, wolf-man, is listening to the speech of those with whom I traveled over the course of many months, and drinking from those that were still what you would consider alive. And to your other concern, I do not hold any control over you. The effect of the blood will wear off, eventually. The knowledge, thankfully, will not fade.”

Altanir was a statue in his crossed-arm pose. “Stay out of my head,” he warned.

Serana’s face contorted in repressed amusement. She turned around and sat on the shoddy bench in her cell.

“So,” she said, “now that you know what I know, I imagine that horrible silver-eyed man will want me killed. Please use a sword.” Her voice softened. “A small kindness.”

Altanir and I exchanged glances. I couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t know what he wanted, but I knew what Meridia wanted. I, however, was conflicted. Serana was the enemy of my enemy. That alone should have been enough to want to free her, to obtain her further assistance in any capacity. But she was also dangerous, strong, hurting, unstable, and very angry.

I had to leave. I had to think, to discuss the options with Altanir in private.

I turned back to Serana. “You will live, for now. I will do what I can to keep Isran away from you.”

I pulled the chair back to the other side of the cell block, and motioned for Altanir to follow me out.

 

“Do you believe her?” Altanir asked me. “About the bow, the sky, all of it.”

“Do you?” I asked him.

Altanir half-smiled, and walked a few steps away, then back again. “I can smell when someone lies. At least… I think I can. I can’t _always_ smell things like this – lies, anger, attraction. Usually I do, but there have been times when I have not. A vampire has a smell of its own that is hard to ignore, but anger, anger I always smell. My father always could smell lies, anger, all of it. I learned very young not to lie around him.” He almost laughed.

“I can’t know when someone is lying,” I said, “but….” I looked to the floor of the corridor. “I don’t think anyone would lie about something like that. What happened to her. If she… if she had volunteered to be bled, why were there so many cuts on her body? Not just the one? They’re all gone now, too. Do all vampire bodies just… heal?”

Altanir nodded.

I sighed, and clutched at my sides. “I think she should be released.”

“That will never happen,” he said, shaking his head. “Even if we could release her, we can’t know what she would do.”

“You don’t think she would kill Torug the moment she sees him? Torug is both vampire – what did she say, pure-blood? – strong, horrible vampire, and Dragonborn. I am Dragonborn. Serana is a vampire. Perhaps this is the only way to kill him, to match his strength. An army is needed to fight his vampires. His vampire army. An army is needed to keep me alive until I can get to Torug. Serana said she already killed other vampires, so she can kill more. I think we will need her.”

“There is no way the Dawnguard would allow a vampire to fight by their side.”

“I know Isran is – what’s the word – stubborn? But he and others need to know what she knows, and what she has done. They will see her usefulness.”

Altanir groaned, and smoothed the flat of his fingers up and down the length of his face, wiping his eyes. He sighed, and lowered his hands to his hips. “I’ll talk to Isran. He has been more _alveita_ than usual. I should never have been allowed alone down here.”

“Anything to get information,” I concluded.

“Indeed.”

“Perhaps, we need to make Isran believe she still holds information. She has told us a lot, but we can’t know what else she knows. Perhaps, we tell Isran she knows how the sky was made dark, but would not tell us.”

“He has ways to get her to talk.”

I cringed, assuming he was referring to torture. “There must be a way to convince him to release her. Use her. Anything that might allow her to work with us.”

“You are still assuming she won’t kill you the first chance she is given. Or drink me dry.”

I slouched against the corridor wall. “I don’t sense any hatred from her against us.”

“I don’t smell any, either. But this might change the moment she is released.”

“Perhaps we need some kind of proof she is telling the truth,” I suggested. “That there is an immortal bow that used her blood to darken the sky. And… something. Something that will help us believe she will not kill us if we release her.”

“I don’t know what kind of proof she could give us from inside a cell.” He jutted his chin toward me. “What does Meridia say?”

“Meridia? She does not talk to me.”

Altanir shrugged. “But she is in your head, no? You said that when you are around vampires, that’s when Meridia is… active.”

He was right. I considered the notion, that my understanding of situations, particularly ones involving vampires, was influenced by Meridia. The goddess wanted Serana and all vampires dead, but through her, somehow, I also understood the language Serana had spoken. Perhaps I understood other things, too.

“I don’t know if I can trust Meridia with this,” I said. “I feel her desire for Serana’s death. I trust more my own mind, and the sense I have from being Dragonborn.” I sighed, and thought on the matter a while longer. Finally, an idea struck. “Perhaps we could read,” I suggested, “look for mention of this bow in books.”

“Mm.” Altanir nodded. “And the castle.”

“If not here, the library at the college might have books on artifacts. The Dawnguard could send word to Winterhold, or agents near there, that we need to find proof of its existence.”

“That could take weeks,” Altanir noted.

I nodded, slowly, racking my brain. “Torug kept her caged. Chained?”

“Yes. All of the agents in The Pale saw it. Perhaps that is the only proof we need. Torug held her prisoner.”

“Unless it was planned this way,” I said. It was conspiracist thinking, but not wholly improbable. “After Torug bled Serana, he could have finished it by cutting off her head. But he didn’t. Perhaps he thought, or knew, he might need her again. Perhaps he knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t die and would just… be there, dry and weak. Perhaps he wanted her to be found.”

Altanir’s brows furrowed. “She was abandoned. They said there were no traps, no guards, nothing. Torug left her there without even a clue that she was inside the caverns. If he wanted her to be found, he did a shit job.”

He was right. We had no reason not to believe Serana. We had no reason not to trust her, other than the fact she was a vampire. As someone who was partially possessed by Meridia, a deity who wanted all undead destroyed without deliberation, I admitted to myself that I was biased, and might forever be conflicted in my feelings toward Serana.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s… it is what it looks like, I think. I think we can believe her.”

Altanir nodded. “So, we need this enchanted bow. Which may be in this castle.”

“A castle only Serana knows exists.”

“This may be her only negotiation foot.”

My eyebrows cocked. “Negotiation foot?”

Altanir began to speak, but held his tongue. His hands moved expressively, halting periodically. “You know.” His hands moved around again inexplicably. “A foot to stand on. During negotiations.”

I nodded. “I understand. Yes. The castle, and bow, are information she can use to protect herself. But I don’t know what we have to protect us from her.”

It was Altanir’s turn to pace. Scratching his head, adjusting his clothing, he was obviously deep in thought. He began to mumble to himself, indiscernible words except for “if we”s and “maybe”s.

Eventually, the man turned to me, stone-faced and serious. “I think,” he said, “that Isran might be open to the idea of using Serana as a sort of inside informer. She knows the castle. Knows, maybe, how many vampires are inside. His first thought is to torture a vampire, but he’s also not an idiot. Serana is unlike any vampire I have seen. Likely anyone has ever seen. I think we can learn from her. An’ she could protect us. If… if she agrees to that. If she doesn’t later want to kill us. I don’t know if I can, or if we should trust her, but she seemed willing to help.” He sighed, and scratched the growing scruff on his lower cheeks. “I just don’t know if speaking with Isran about this alone or with you would be better. Or if the idea should come from only you.”

We stared at one another. We stared some more.

“From me,” I finally suggested, “with you there, though. But, first, let’s talk to him about Solstheim, and the Telvanni you mentioned.”

. . . . . .

On the battlements, Isran, Altanir, and I stared at one another for a while until Isran nodded to himself several times and said, “You should go to Solstheim. On behalf of the Dawnguard, and as ‘The Dragonborn’.” Isran emphasized my title with exaggerated grandiose. “Go there, find the remaining Telvanni, find as many mages as you can. People on the island may know others still in Morrowind.”

Telvanni. Telvanni. A vague memory resurfaced. I knew I had heard that word long ago. I could hear the voice saying it. But who? A woman. Who?

Altanir and Isran had continued the conversation without me. I heard nothing but the timbre of their voices as I combed my memory.

Telvanni, Telvanni, Telvanni. _House Telvanni. Conjuration. That’s what’s important._

“Ooh!” I squealed, and my arms and hands flailed with the realization. “Brelyna!”

“Brelyna?” asked Altanir.

“Maryon! Brelyna Maryon is of House Telvanni! Oh, gods I remember—I remember it was almost when I first met her. She’s in Winterhold! Or, was. I don’t know. Stenvar said that her and Jenassa wanted to visit Solstheim. Visit family.” My eyes shot to Isran’s. “Has there been any news from Winterhold?”

“No, nothing yet. But our troops near Dawnstar have orders to go there.”

Growling, I turned away and pulled at my already mussy can’t-be-bothered hair. “I need to know if they’re alright. The people in Winterhold. They might be starving.” I looked back to Altanir. “Is there a way to go from Winterhold to Solstheim?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. The waters north of Winterhold are supposed to be too dangerous, icy. But boats are supposed to sail from Blacklight in northwest Morrowind to Raven Rock, the main city on Solstheim. From there, we can travel to Tel Mithryn, where the Telvanni are supposed to live.” Altanir sighed, and sank back against the wall. “I just hope Blacklight is alright. It isn’t far from the mountain pass to Windhelm.”

 _Shit_. “Shit.”

He nodded. “Shit.”

“I doubt Blacklight will be taken,” said Isran, “but if it is, you can find other ways to the island. We have maps, and people who have traveled through the Vvardenfell wastes I can send with you as guides. Don’t worry about Winterhold right now. Traveling there from here is not safe. East of the Velothi mountains should be clear of most vampires, and that path takes you directly to Blacklight. If, _if_ you find a boat that will take you to Winterhold and then to Solstheim, fine. I can’t stop you. But our troops in The Pale will find a way to get food to Winterhold. If possible, it would be best for those currently in Winterhold to remain there until you are finished on Solstheim. You can sail from Raven Rock to Dawnstar. Make contact with agents posted there, and they can escort you and anyone with you to Winterhold.”

I looked to Altanir, and together, we nodded. “Alright,” I said. Turning to Isran, I added, “I want to take the vampire with us.”

Isran crossed his arms and steeled his face. “No.”

“She’s a pureblood vampire, Isran,” Altanir explained. “She’s strong. Valuable. More valuable as a warrior an’ hunter, tracker, informant than sitting in a cage.”

“It has a taste for your blood, nephew. And it is no longer bound. How can I be certain it hasn’t enslaved you – both of you – with a spell just to get what it wants?”

“Because I’m resistant to magic,” I said.

“And she wears that band around her neck,” said Altanir.

“And don’t forget the enchanted cell bars,” I added.

Altanir stepped close to his uncle, and spoke low. “Don’t forget that I can smell _restrith_ , and except for her first meeting with Deborah, except towards you an’ your men, Serana is not _restritha_. She does not want to harm us. She understands we share an enemy; she only wants Torug dead. She knows what Deborah is and understands killing her is a bad idea if we are to kill another Dragonborn.”

“As you can see,” I mentioned to Isran, showcasing my scars to him, “I am not easy to kill. To kill a vampire-Dragonborn, we need the same. But I am no vampire. Serana is.”

“’Serana’,” Isran repeated with a sneer. “You do realize naming something makes killing it difficult for the soft-hearted.”

“What good fortune the vampire knows all of our names, then.” Altanir smirked.

“Isran,” I said, “like Altanir, I can sense danger. I can sense anger, enemies. It is my dragon blood. But as you know I also have Meridia in me. There is no one better than Altanir and I to keep watch over Serana while we travel. And we won’t be alone – we have companions. An archer and a strong warrior, at the very least. We can all watch her.

“Meridia wants this vampire dead, because she wants all vampires dead. But Meridia does not control me. I know this vampire is useful to all of us. She knows things – she knows how the sky was made dark, and may know a way to fix it. But before we can even begin to fix the sky, Torug and his vampires must be destroyed. There is no other way. You will need to trust me.” I turned to Altanir. “Trust us.” I looked back to Isran, who was as expressionless as ever. “We need Serana’s help for _all_ of this. I will not leave her here with you. I need her with me. Let us take her to Solstheim and wherever we need to go. If nothing else, she can help kill other vampires along the way, which she has already done, apparently.”

“And will gladly kill more,” Altanir added.

Isran grumbled and shook his head. “How can you possibly think traveling with a vampire is a good idea? People will attack it, certainly, and you. They will think it’s enslaved you.”

“Let us worry about that,” I said. “No matter what happens on the road, I trust her to be safe at my side more than I do here with you.”

“Perhaps,” said Altanir, “we can keep the illusion that she is our prisoner. Keep that band on her. Or put a different one on. She might need her magic to fight. If we can convince others she is _our_ slave, we might not be attacked.”

 _Yes, good_ , I whispered in my head while half-smiling at Altanir.

Isran grumbled again and turned away, looking over the parapet for a while. He then looked to the sky, and back to us.

“The vampire tells our researchers everything it knows before it leaves, or no deal. And further, I want everyone to know that this was _your_ idea,” he said to me, and then to Altanir, “and yours.” He turned away, huffing in anger. “Your blood will not be on my hands.”

We watched the man dissolve into the shadow of the open stairwell entrance. His heavy footsteps echoed up the stone turret.

I turned to Altanir with a triumphant smile, though the feeling quickly diminished when the reality of the future set in.

“So,” Altanir said. “To Solstheim.”

I nodded. “To Solstheim.” I turned to gaze at the eerie quasi-sun. “And far away from my family.”

“You know we will have to walk there, yes?”

Horrified, I spun to the man. “Walk!? Why?”

“Morrowind and southern Solstheim are covered in ash. The only plants that grow there now are not things horses can eat. Some are poisonous even to people. These mountains protect Skyrim from the volcano. It’s still spitting ash.”

“How long will this take? To walk?”

Altanir shrugged. “I’ve seen the maps. Perhaps two weeks, if you are slow.” He practically smiled.

Whining, I thought about alternatives. “Why not ride horses to Dawnstar? Take a boat from there?”

He shook his head. “Last I knew, no boats from Dawnstar sailed to Solstheim. If there were any, Isran would have said so. And travel to Solitude may be dangerous.”

Weary from even the idea of a long pedestrian trek, I sighed through a sob, and leaned on the parapet. “I’m going to need better boots,” I mumbled.

. . . . . .

“Unnecessary,” Serana replied.

Altanir’s brows cocked. “Of course it is necessary. You’re a vampire. Without keeping you in binds, people will think you’ve put us under a spell. Even if they can’t look upon your face, they could cast spells to detect undead.”

Serana released a long, quiet sigh. “It is the band around my neck,” she explained. “Remove it, and I assure you, I will appear as any Nord, if I so choose.”

“If you choose?” I asked.

She nodded. “To the eye, and to magic.”

“How?” asked Altanir.

A thin wisp of black, straight hair fell before her eyes, and Serana smoothed it away. “One of the many gifts Molag Bal gives his Daughters. One of many ways to be unseen. A way to hunt. A way to… survive.”

Altanir and I stood quietly for a moment, digesting Serana’s words.

“You should know that magic is weakened now,” I noted, “thanks to this sun-spell.”

Her mouth twisted into the wry hint of a smirk. “Not mine. Not any vampire. That is why you need conjurers, mages who call upon the magics of Oblivion. Whoever among you first thought to seek out these Telvanni was clever, indeed.”

Altanir turned to me. “Do you know any conjuration magic?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I can enchant, but I never learned any conjuration. I was going to, but—well, I didn’t.” I took in a deep breath, and let the air rush out. “I wish my friend Elodie was still at the college. She’s… away. I don’t know where. Sometimes I wonder if she—” I stopped speaking, realizing I was about to disclose her newfound status in the Psijic Order.

“Anyway,” I continued directly, “she was, is a strong conjurer. Perhaps there are more at the college. I don’t remember.”

“Are you planning to go to this college?” asked Serana. “And to Solstheim?”

“We are,” answered Altanir. “And we would like to take you with us.”

“But I need to know that I can trust you,” I continued, aiming for full disclosure of my wariness. “I need to know that you will not kill us and everyone here once we release you.”

“With this band around my neck, I cannot hope to overpower you.” Serana’s temples bulged as her jaw tensed. “Beyond knowing that you and I desire to kill the same monster and return the sun to the land, I do not know how to earn your trust. I, however, trust that you wish to use me as a weapon, to let me live long enough until I am no longer necessary. For me, I understand the benefit of traveling with a Dragonborn. If we can agree to not kill one another until the deeds are done, that might be the only source of comfort I can give you.”

Altanir approached her cell, too close for my comfort. “Why would you, a vampire, want to see the sun returned?”

Serana stepped forward in confidence, smiling broadly. “I like the warmth,” she said, her fangs flashing, “even if the sun makes my skin itch when exposed, and pained if exposed at length. Without the sun returned, winters will be unbearable. And without enough sun, I fear the health of the land will fail, and with it, people. There is no surviving this curse. It must be undone.”

One steady glance from Altanir told me he was convinced. I, too, sensed no lie in Serana’s words. My head ached from holding back against Meridia’s desire to kill the vampire, but the goddess’s sentiments were instinctual, and non-discriminatory. I was not her puppet; I could choose to disobey.

I nodded to Altanir, and he walked toward the corner of the room where levers corresponding to each cell were lined up against the wall. Each lever was attached to a series of mechanisms arcing overhead that eventually pulled the linchpin out from a cell door lock. I had seen such constructs before, such as the fortress in Whiterun where vampires were being experimented upon. The chain and pulley system was fairly sophisticated.

With a final glance and another nod, Altanir pulled the lever for Serana’s cell, and I waited as the iron bars slid upwards.

Once the bars were cleared, Serana stepped forward, tentative. She placed her hands on her hips, looked around, and said, “Now, where can a lady go to find some proper clothing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: That’s it for part 1! I don't know how much of a break there will be until the second story arc is ready, or at least until the next chapter is ready. I'm sooo clooose to finishing my dissertation and I'm still in horrendous pain from my back, so there's definitely going to be a substantial break. Chapter 14 is partly drafted, however, and I think that's going to be the bump I'll need to get past in order for the rest of the story to flow forward. Many thanks for reading, and stay tuned!
> 
> Sotha lot – (Old Norren) bloody sky  
> alveita - lenient  
> restrith - aggression


	14. Twilight

 

 

**— 2 —**

**TWILIGHT**

**Chapter 14**

_The strong, autumn beach wind musses my hair. I fix the tresses. I get sand in my hair._

_My sweater is tight and damp. My skin shivers and prickles as gooseflesh rises. Warmth at my side reminds me we should go home, soon. I want a Pumpkin Spice. He wants kibble._

_I turn to my faceless blonde friend. We’re talking about make-up. She doesn’t wear make-up. I don’t wear make-up. My mother and sister love make-up._

_Impatient, my dog decides to give my left hand a tongue bath._

_“Enough, Sam,” I scold him, but give his head a scritch rather than pull away._

_“Anyway,” I say to the woman, “you were saying? About mascara?”_

_She shakes her head. “No,_ Dovahkiin _. Not ‘mascara’. I said, ‘mask.’ I need to give you his mask.”_

 

The tongue tickled my palm, sending tingles up to my inner elbow.

“Sam,” I whined, “Sam, stop.” I lazily flicked my hand at the wrist. The dog walked away.

Sand. Cold sand. Grit, wind, and waves. I was lying on my back. The entirety of my skin was dry and itchy. My lips and tongue were stiff and sore. My mouth was parched.

I breathed deep, and the intake caused me to choke. In my convulsions I turned onto my side. Every inhale was a wheeze. I felt I might vomit, and pushed myself to my knees, wrists braced against the sand. Something was in my lungs. I began to see stars.

I felt the dog’s presence and heard his panting again. His face was right before mine.

“Sam,” I rasped, “what—”

The coughing had me bowed forward. I reached behind me, expecting my canteen to be dangling from my knapsack.

No canteen.

No knapsack.

The weight I was supporting with my aching arms was only my stiff clothing and matted hair, and my own body. My arms began to shake. I allowed myself to lay prostrate as the hacking continued.

My throat, nose, and lungs burned. What was happening?

“Greg?” No. No, not Greg.

Greg left years ago. I was in Skyrim, now. _Himborth._ I was in a land called _Himborth_ and I was _Dovah-faea_ , Dragonborn. _Dovahkiin_.

 _The woman!_ Who was that woman? Had I been dreaming? I must have been dreaming. A woman had called me _Dovahkiin_ and wanted to sell me mascara.

The dog. Not Sam. Sam was on Earth, with my mother. Forever with my mother, frozen in time.

The coughing subsided. I pushed myself up to look around and found nothing, and no one, just a beach of black coarse sand. I lay back down. A fullness irritated my left hip. I tilted my body and found Dawnbreaker, safely sheathed.

Everything ached. Everything itched, and burned. My skin and leather armor were encrusted with silt and sand. Tiny pieces of mineral were scratching my eyes, though this had become an expected condition while traveling the ashlands of northwestern Morrowind. My stiffened scarf was still knotted around my neck. I pulled it up and covered my nose and mouth. The cloud spewing from the volcano was unrelenting and unforgiving, and apparently I had inhaled a dangerous amount of ash.

Wondering where I was, and where my friends were, I pushed myself around again and sat up. My vision was blurry. I blamed the sunless sky, and the sea water, and debris my eyes had no doubt been bombarded with.

This place looked similar to the ashlands of Morrowind. Behind me, the land rose in a strong slope and was accented by sparse pines, boulders, and some odd-looking cliffs. In front of me sprawled a small, circular bay littered with driftwood. I saw the ash cloud, rising from Red Mountain across the sea and to my left. South. Southeast.

I was on Solstheim, the island north of Morrowind. And my companions where nowhere in sight.

Had I passed out? For how long had I been unconscious? Was I dying of dehydration? Was blurry vision a symptom of dehydration?

I needed water. Potable water. I had absolutely nothing on my person but my armor and my sword. I reached for the amulet set against my chest. It was still there, and my two rings were still on my right first finger and left thumb.

The beach was dark, clouded from the evening sun by both ash and doom. The land as far as I could see – which was not far – was barren but for dead logs, driftwood, and the same sort of oversized aloe-like plant found in northern Morrowind. No light shined in any direction to signal the presence of people.

“ _Laas yah nir!”_ I gave power to the Shout, as much as I could. I waited, sensing the world around me. The dog, somewhere near. Some small animals, and tiny sea creatures.

Not one person. I allowed myself the tiniest of sobs.

I needed to wash my eyes. I knew this. I worried however that applying sea water to potentially scratched corneas was a bad idea. Alternatively, perhaps it was a great idea. I decided on the former, assuming that everything one wanted to do with sea water when water-deprived was always a bad idea.

So I sat on the beach, bewildered, itchy, sore, thirsty, and half-blind.

Behind me, I felt a presence again. The dog.

The blur of grey and white in canine form strutted to my side, and dropped something brown from his mouth onto my knee. The thing was about as big as my lap was wide. Being half-blind, I couldn’t tell what it was until I picked it up and—

“Oh, gods!”

Squealing as best my hampered lungs would allow, I leapt from the sand and backed away from the creature the dog had gifted me. As if to remove the grossness from my person, I swept my palms down my gritty trousers and shook out my arms.

The dog sat behind the dead creature, and though I could not see details, I saw his pink tongue flop from his mouth. He was waiting for me.

“What?” I asked him, as if the dog spoke Norren.

The dog did not move, but did offer a chipper bark.

Approaching, I looked down at the creature again, and the dog stepped back. I squinted at the creature to try and discern what it was, but it just looked like a mess of twigs. Crouching down, I could see sharp angles and stripes of brown, and what looked like long, spindly legs. The creature looked like a cricket, but almost as big as my new canine friend.

“ _The fuck?_ ” I whispered in English, and reached for a stick-like leg.

The creature weighed a ton. That is, for a giant cricket. I had expected it to weigh no more than a stick, as if the thing was a dried husk with no meat under the exoskeleton. I backed away from the giant cricket and looked to the dog.

Rasping again, I asked him, “You expect me to eat this?”

The dog simply stood where he was, somewhat removed from my reach, and offered a soft yelp.

“I don’t eat _crickets_ ,” I explained, slipping in the English word.

The dog barked cheerfully.

The thought of eating a giant cricket, or perhaps simply the thought of eating in general, set my nerves on edge.

Where were my companions? Where was my knapsack? Where on Solstheim was I?

A vision of a gaping maw with serrated teeth appeared in front of my face. I screamed, and stumbled backward. _Feim!_ I heard myself scream. The Shout backfired. I had expected to float – I sank. As I was being swallowed by the depths, I watched the sea dragon snatch the Dunmer boatman in its mouth and swerve deeper into the northern sea.

The Sea of Ghosts.

One of our guides, Durak – a grumpy old orc who recruited for the Dawnguard – had said the sea was named after a deadly storm that took the lives of many in ancient times. Our other guide, Tythis – a smarmy, slim and objectively attractive Dunmer man – claimed the sea was named so after a cursed Nord pirate who sailed centuries ago.

Perhaps the sea monster was the real namesake.

I had felt its presence, but had looked in the wrong direction. My senses had told me a dragon was about to attack. I had looked to the sky.

It was my fault. All of it. When denied docking access at Raven Rock we should have returned to Blacklight, as the boatman had advised. There were dozens of boats full of refugees from Morrowind and Skyrim waiting to dock well ahead of us. They had been waiting for days.

We could have ignored the port authority. It would have been no big deal – and if it had been a big deal, I would have ignored the protests or reprimands. Alternatively, I could have used a Shout to transport myself over the water and onto the dock. The distance was long, but I would have cleared the water. Probably.

But no. We had to go to Tel Mithryn. We needed the help of the Telvanni. So when Serana revealed to me that she could persuade the boatman to do anything she asked, I couldn’t resist the easiest option.

It only took a moment after Serana put her hand on the boatman’s shoulder, looked into his eyes, and asked in a lofty voice for him to sail east. The Dunmer initially protested in broken Norren, citing dangerous waters. We thought he meant icebergs and the like. One more request from Serana and he was her puppet, and we were off. No one thought to stop us. No one in the other boats asked questions. Perhaps they had thought we were headed to another northern town in Morrowind.

I didn’t remember much after the sea dragon ate the boatman – only my translucent body sinking, pieces of the boat floating apart, and the increasing nothingness as the dark subsurface receded further and further away. _Yrsa_ ….

Were they eaten too, my companions? If any had survived, it would have been Serana. Surely she had escaped – but to where? Perhaps she took the opportunity to flee to her castle and confront Torug alone. I didn’t blame her. Traveling with me certainly did her no good.

On the off-chance that my magical abilities were working again, I cast Clear-Seeing in an attempt to find any of my companions. Nothing. I cast a healing spell. _Nada_. The dog cocked his head at the sound of my groan.

There was no sign of any of my companions, or any of our belongings. Even remnants of the boat were nowhere nearby. Perhaps my ghostly form allowed the waves to transport me to a different place. Perhaps my companions held onto pieces of the boat and swam to shore. Even if I could have seen into the distance, I wasn’t sure I would have recognized any landmarks. Every bit of land I had seen along the coast looked the same.

With any luck, Altanir and the rest were close by. If not, then I would just have to meet them in Tel Mithryn.

The dog began happily eating the giant cricket. I heard the exoskeleton snap, and something pink oozed from a broken leg. I cringed, and looked away.

I couldn’t eat giant cricket. I couldn’t!

In Skyrim I had once dined on the meat of a giant roasted rat called a _skamis_ , and had eaten bear meat with Ralof in the caves outside of Helgen. Traveling through western Morrowind, we ate a lot of yam-like tubers, mudcrabs, and the meat of a flying reptile that loosely resembled a flying dinosaur. Tythis had called it what I thought translated as Cliff Racer. The animal had conical teeth built for snatching fish out of water, and was big enough to grasp a child in its talons.

All of those creatures were weird things for me to eat. I drew the line at giant crickets.

But my stomach and scratchy, dry throat had other desires. The meat of this cricket did appear to be moist. Perhaps giant cricket wouldn’t be so bad.

Though I’ve never had the pleasure, I knew that crickets were eaten in some places around my world, or at the very least _could_ be eaten, whether deliberately harvested or as a last resort. But those crickets were fried, or at least roasted, probably.

I walked slowly toward the dog and his dinner, and broke off four remaining legs at their joint with the segmented abdomen. After walking a few paces away from the dog, I set the legs down, backed away, and breathed deep.

A weak burst of dragon fire would hopefully cook the meat enough to destroy whatever Nirnish parasites thrived in raw giant cricket meat. Approaching the legs, I felt the heated ash-sand matrix beneath my feet. Some steam or smoke rose from the limbs. I let them sit a moment, and looked to my side. The dog was on the ground, unmoving with his head on his forepaws. His dark ears were no longer perked upright, but flattened against his head.

I had scared him. Of course I had scared him.

A thought then occurred to me. Shouts were loud. Sound would very likely carry far across this land of few trees. Serana, who had very keen hearing, would certainly hear an especially loud Shout. _Fus ro dah_. The loudest of Shouts that I knew.

Thinking no further on it, I inhaled and Shouted toward the sky. The shockwave did nothing but cause a thunderous quake that shook the land beneath my feet.

I turned back to the dog. “Sorry,” I choked out, and gave him some space.

The scorched giant cricket legs snapped open easily. The meat inside was a solid pink, like the marrow from a cattle bone, but slimier.

_They’re just like giant crab legs. Just like giant crab. Just like mudcrab. You love mudcrab! Just eat the mudcrab, Deborah._

Staring at my meal, I sighed, and closed my eyes.

. . . . . .

After a few hours of futile waiting by a deadwood signal fire, I decided to walk inland in search of anything drinkable, creating torches out of deadwood along the way. The dog followed. I didn’t mind. I whispered “ _laas_ ” occasionally – the act previously becoming habitual while traveling during this eternal night.

I attempted to use my dragon sense to search for fresh water, but found nothing. Perhaps dragons did not drink. Indeed, Paarthurnax had said dragons didn’t need to feed, but sometimes chose to. Wonderful.

I silently chastised myself for not learning or creating practical Shouts. _Reveal Good Water. Heal My Flesh. Regenerate My Magic._ Those were all potentially Shouts that could work. Why had I learned useless things like clearing harsh weather and moving rocks around when I could have taken the initiative and done what apparently no Tongue or Dragonborn had done before? Aside from the Tongues who sent Alduin back in time.

 _Because Shouts should only be used to praise Kyne,_ I heard Arngeir say, _or in a time of True Need_.

“Shut up, old man,” I spat under my breath in English.

True Need. Finding water was the neediest need of all needs. True Need was also what I did at Windhelm, blasting those vampires to ash. I still didn’t know what words I had Shouted.

I attempted to cast Clear-Seeing to lead me to water, but no light emerged.

Sighing, I looked to the dog. “Where do you drink water from?” I asked him in Norren. He cocked his head and smiled a doggy smile. “Water,” I repeated, and attempted to wet my mouth with saliva. “Water.”

Pant, pant, pant.

“Where did you come from? Do you have people?”

Pant, pant, questioning whine.

“People. Human. Who is your human? Elf? Maybe an orc or— _aarrrgh_ what am I saying?” I eyed the confused pup a moment. “Come on, Dog. Let’s go.”

As Dog and I continued inland, I considered my options. Finding water was obviously a priority, but what if I didn’t find even the hint of a creek in this ashland topped by dead and dying pines? I had no way of knowing how near or far Tel Mithryn was, but I knew it was east. Perhaps I could use a Shout to get there quickly, leaving the dog behind.

I looked down at the silver beastie with a tightly curled bushy tail, and he looked up at me. His bright amber eyes and huge black, triangular ears did me in. That was it. I was his.

“Nah, no way am I leaving you,” I muttered in English, “the dog who brought me a cricket.”

He tilted his head.

Switching back to Norren, I said, “Alright, Dog. Let’s go find some water.”

Two approving barks settled it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my [tumblr](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com) followers – I told you my new OC was cute ;) ;)
> 
> And yes, this chapter is a time-jump from Chapter 13, cutting out the entirety of the Morrowind travel time (a little less than 2 weeks) and any goodbyes Deb had with her family. Don’t worry, as was partially done in this chapter, some memories of the Morrowind time will be narrated by Deborah. The family goodbyes were already showcased in Riften, and would have been no different this time around.
> 
> I cut out the Morrowind travel because I felt it was superfantastically boring. Nothing meaningful was happening during those chapters, so the interesting events that occurred were inserted into the chapters that will be posted from here on (at least the first two chapters of Act 2).
> 
> I also cut those chapters because I wanted to get to the plot points already. While trying to imagine what Morrowind is like at the moment is interesting, they were only going to be traveling in the eastern mountain foothills, not visiting any city but Blacklight, in which nothing exciting happened either. So don’t worry. You’re not missing out. The most interesting thing that I completely cut was Deb narrating the Morrowind landscape, which was like, a sentence, or two.
> 
> Anyway! Stay tuned, next week…
> 
>    
> Himborth - Skyrim  
> Dovah-faea - Dragon-born  
> skamis - skeever ("little miscreant")


	15. Chapter 15

At night, the Sea of Ghosts was a dark, empty void. Red Mountain glowed minimally in the distance. I spotted other blurry glowing objects, just off the coastline. Blueish purple and cyan, the glowing pulsed, slowly. The lights were likely emanating from some other creature I had yet to encounter, one that perhaps attracted prey with luminescence.

I was thankful for my makeshift torches, though they did not last very long as they were nothing but thick pieces of deadwood I Shouted fire at. Had I any magic left in my veins, I would have been casting Magelight and Candlelight.

I missed Serana. On our journey north from Fort Dawnguard, the vampire had called upon the magics of Oblivion and formed purplish orbs of light that acted no different from my spells. But they were stronger, further proof that this sun curse shaded the land from Aetherius and allowed energy from Oblivion to seep in instead. This was also further proof that the sun and stars were, indeed, holes in the heavenly canopy.

I sighed, remembering past conversations about the sun and stars. I missed Marcurio and Wuunferth. Poor Wuunferth….

Serana was a clever young woman. Her illusory appearance as a human, a spell sourced from Oblivion and a blessing from her creator Molag Bal, allowed her to mask not only her physical self, but to change her voice. She appeared no older than about eighteen, and her eyes were a vibrant green instead of bleeding, lucent gold. The alteration could only be accomplished without wearing the enchanted anti-magic collar, which we removed after leaving the Fort Dawnguard prison thanks to Altanir’s lockpicking skills.

Neriwen and Thrynn never clued in on Serana’s true status, fully convinced her connection to Oblivion was due to her being a simple conjurer. Adding to the ruse, Serana carried a knapsack of supplies as we all did, but hers was full of drinking water – a lot of it. She was strong, very strong, and transported the extra canteens in the event some of ours were lost. Even better, the woman did not need to feed often, though I was informed Altanir had agreed to supply Serana with blood in exchange for her continued cooperation.

My and Altanir’s worry about Serana attacking us had proven unfounded. We remained wary, though. Upon release, the vampire was everything but aggressive. She had been given a simple black mage’s robe from a collection at the Fort, and a small iron dagger. She carried the dagger for show, claiming she would never need it.

In the end, Serana had been good company, however private. She was very talkative about mundane things – part of her ruse as an excited young woman eager to see the world – but once Altanir or I asked about her life as a vampire, she shut down.

I hoped my friends were alright, but if anyone could protect them, Serana could.

 

Ahead, I saw a large black mass, and what looked like candle or fire light.

A building. Finally.

Not wanting to get too excited, I continued forward, calmly.

“ _Laas yah nir._ ” The dog, some small critters running away fast, and six people. Elves. Probably Dunmer. I sensed no hostility.

Cautious, I ditched my torch and held my hand near, but not on, Dawnbreaker. Touching the sword would have caused the embedded crystal to emit light.

I hoped the dog knew better than to burst into a building that might not be safe.

“Don’t go into the house, Dog,” I muttered, just in case.

He growled, but only briefly.

Onward I walked, slowly. Mindful of my steps, I listened to the volume of their crunch. The stiff soles of my previously good boots did not soften my approach, but I watched for any debris in my path.

The closer I came to the structure, the more it looked like a house, partially destroyed. There was a small fire confined to one location, and the red aura of the elves within told me two were above ground, and four were under.

“ _Kfft_ ,” I whispered to the dog. He remained silent.

Walking just outside of a wall, I began to distinguish two voices. One woman, one man. When I thought I was close enough to discern words, I halted, and waited. The wall ended only a meter or so ahead, and I wanted to know what I was walking into.

The dog sat at my side, and pressed his body against my leg. I laid my right hand on his head.

“Right,” the man said in Norren with an odd accent, “that’s why we need t’ go to the city. Only other place to find good armor ‘round here was the Skaal villages, and they’re burnt.”

“I can’t go back there, _s’wit_ ,” said the woman. “There’s a price on my head.”

“Again?”

“Yeah, _again_. Always.” She paused. “The guard I used to make deals with left, or….”

The man chuckled. “‘Make deals’. Nice way of sayin’ ya sucked—”

“Shut up!” Slap, grunt, and the clunk of heavy metal. “Ass.”

Creaking wood, and a slamming door.

Silence.

“ _Laas_.” Sure enough, five bodies were now underground, and one above. Good.

From their exchange, it seemed that the two people, and likely all six, were outlaws. The woman had a bounty out on her. These facts did not make the elves bad people, but considering how my last venture with outlaws turned out, I expected the worst. I would have steered clear of the house and continued on my way, but I needed water, desperately. Six people were liable to have something – anything – to drink.

Before I started for the broken end of the wall, I concocted a plan.

Whisper to the man, and act helpless. Indeed, I was handicapped – dehydrated and half-blind – but I had my Shouts, and adrenaline was working in my favor. If the man made threatening remarks, I would attack. If he was confused or curious, I would reveal myself. Should he advance with a weapon, I would use the Shout that slowed time, and kill him, if necessary.

Probably necessary.

Any Shout other than the one that revealed life would create a thunderous noise and attract the attention of all five elves below ground. The Shout that could slow time was my best chance of defending myself against five bandits – or, rather, taking them out, one by one.

I turned to look for the dog, but he had disappeared. Perhaps he knew this was a bad idea.

_Oh well._

“H-hello?” I whispered, exaggerating my rasping voice, and coughing delicately.

A sudden movement, the scuff of boots and perhaps the grasp of a weapon, sounded from behind the broken wall. The man said nothing.

“Hello?” I called again. “I need help. Please.” I backed away somewhat from the wall, and waited.

Footsteps sounded slowly, and soon a thin, bald Dunmer man emerged. I couldn’t make out his facial expression, but I could see he was holding a sword and what looked like a bottle.

“Who the fuck’re you?” He laughed, and drank from the bottle.

“I-I’m no one. I just need a bit of water. And then I’ll leave.”

“A bit o’ water? A bit?” He took another sip. “It’ll cost you.”

“If you don’t have water, maybe some wine or mead. Anything will do.”

He drank the remnants of the bottle, chucked it away, and approached with his sword blade resting on his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck. With the flick of his fingers, a small flare of fire lit the shrinking space between us. He chuckled.

“You’ve got nothin’,” he said. “A sword, I see. And some ruined leathers.” He stopped walking about an arm’s length from me. “You plannin’ to use that sword?”

I swallowed the single blessed drop of saliva left in my mouth. “Honestly,” I lied, “I’m too weak to lift it.”

The man chuckled, and lowered his sword to his side. He jerked his head backward toward the house. “C’mon, we’ve some mead to spare, certainly.” He offered his hand, but I did not take it.

Keeping my distance, I followed him. I just needed a full bottle of some sort of liquid. When I had the bottle in hand, all I had to do was Shout ‘ _wuld_ ’ and I would be long gone. Hopefully the dog would follow me.

The man leaned his sword point down against a dresser on which sat many bottles. He grabbed one, uncorked it, and handed it to me. When I hesitated, he nodded at the bottle and offered it again.

“Go on. It’s just mead. We don’t care much for Nord drink, here.”

Keeping my blurry gaze on the man and not the bottle, I reached for the mead, which was released from his grasp without issue. I sniffed the contents – mead, unsoured. I took a big, satisfying gulp. My tongue thanked me.

“Cork, please,” I demanded nicely.

I was near enough to see the Dunmer’s smirk.

_Crap._

“I told ya,” he said softly. “It’ll cost you.”

As I was about to drop the mead and reach for Dawnbreaker, the man held out his hand, palm up.

I looked to his hand and back up again. “I lost my coin,” I said truthfully.

“Gold is gold, _n’wah_.” Gold. My jewelry. He fluttered his fingers, expectant.

A barter. Fair was fair. But I had only taken one drag from the bottle. The rest was not worth my mementos of Yrsarald, and definitely not my sword, or anything else he might have accepted in trade.

Into the Dunmer’s upturned palm I placed the bottle, and started on my way out the broken wall.

“I didn’t say you could leave!” the man shouted, no doubt alerting the others to my presence. “Hey!”

The woosh of a sword. Angry footsteps. I sensed his nearness and hostility, and inhaled. Before his hand was on my shoulder, I readied the Shout.

_“Feim zii gron!_ ”

I didn’t usually hear the thunderous effect of my own Shouts, but the near-silent landscape did not obscure much from the ears. The sound seemed to travel far inland. I registered the Dunmer’s stunned expression but did not linger to explain. He likely would not have waited for an explanation. The man did not need to die, nor had I the energy or visual acuity to fight him.

“ _Wuld!_ ” The Shout sent me eastward several meters, and from there I continued walking into the night, all but invisible, even to myself. The only time I was thankful for the completely moonless, starless sky.

Loud, confused voices were soon drowned out by waves, and the dog quickly returned to my side.

. . . . . .

The Dunmer wasn’t the only person I had to defend myself from since leaving Fort Dawnguard.

Everything in Morrowind was hungry, including the people. It quickly became apparent, after an early encounter with a band of what I could only describe as feral Argonians, that the eating of other sapient races had become something one did in the swampy southern reaches of the province. There were seven Argonians, five adults and two young ones, and us six travelers. We shouldn’t have had to kill them. We would have left them alone and continued on our way.  

_We were defending ourselves_ , I repeated to myself as I involuntarily pictured the bloodied, still bodies of the Argonian children who had attacked with knapped-stone knives.

Violence was far from the nature of the Argonians I knew. Then again, I had only briefly met several, but they had been very kind. The actions of these Morrowind Argonians likely had nothing to do with race. They were hungry, perhaps starving, hunting anything that breathed.

Killing the Argonians was far harder to stomach than killing the four Forsworn vampires we encountered half a day’s walk south of Blacklight. They were scouts, thought Durak, sent out from Windhelm through the Dunmeth Pass, which Tythis had explained was an old trade route between Windhelm and Blacklight.

We had been concerned after that about the safety of Blacklight, but there had been absolutely no sign of vampires there. Perhaps Torug’s minions knew nothing of the Dunmeri port city. I could only hope they also knew nothing of Fort Dawnguard.

 

A gust of wind blew more grit into my eyes. Groaning, I adjusted the scarf tied over my nose and mouth. Unfortunately, safety goggles weren’t a thing in Tamriel. Nor had I my snow goggles purchased in Ivarstead, not that the slitted things would have done much good against airborne ash and sand. What I really needed was thin fabric to wear over my face, but I wasn’t sure if such a thing existed here.

The dog whined, and licked my fingers.

“I’m fine,” I reassured him. “Are you hungry? We haven’t eaten since we stopped for the night.”

The dog had hunted for us another giant cricket, but more importantly had found a sort of root plant that grew on the surface, reaching sprawling widths of about a meter. I recalled seeing the plant in Skyrim, but never thought to ask what it was. In the darkness I hadn’t seen what the dog had been chewing on, but when I heard a slurping noise I knew he had found liquid.

The vein-like root worked almost like a dense sponge or cork, soaking up and retaining water. The liquid wasn’t brackish at all; the salt must have been filtered out. The beauty of the root was that it was portable. I could carry an entire cluster and chew a piece whenever I felt thirsty.

I had also been able to squeeze enough water from the root to wash my face and eyes. When I still couldn’t see well after that, I knew something was wrong. Very likely, the lack of access to magic had allowed my eyes to reset to their natural state, one of near-sightedness and astigmatism. I tried again to cast a healing spell, but nothing happened. I knew I was right, that my vision was once again impaired, and though upset and worried I tried to concentrate on finding real water, and finding my friends.

After a long rest over the night and well into the gloomy morning, I had felt somewhat rejuvenated. Certainly this was due to no longer being dangerously dehydrated, and perhaps because in addition to cricket meat I had found one of the yam-like tubers we had eaten in Morrowind. Dragon-fire roasted yam was not that bad. The tuber had been about as big as my head. In the morning, with Dawnbreaker I cut the cooked food into manageable pieces, and what I couldn’t carry I fed to the dog. He loved it.

I had no idea how far east the dog and I had traveled, or how far away from my destination I had washed ashore. None of my companions had mentioned how long it would have taken to walk to Tel Mithryn – perhaps no one had known. All we knew was that the city was in the far southeast of the island, overlooking the sea. I figured, the best I could do was keep walking east until I no longer saw land. If I reached the sea and saw no city, then I was either lost, or screwed.

The dog barked.

“What’s up, cricket-hunter?” I asked in English.

He barked again, and again. Loudly, and not in the same tone as when he barked during our short-lived conversations. I realized he wasn’t looking at me, and turned to gaze in the same direction south, toward the beach. I saw nothing, though that was hardly surprising.

“What is it?” I asked in Norren. “Do you smell something? Something bad? More _crickets_?”

_Please don’t send a hundred giant crickets toward me. Please._

The dog’s barking turned to dangerous growls, and the hairs on my arms stood straight. My dragon sense, without the aid of a Shout, knew something bad was near. But what?

“Come on, Dog,” I called. “Let’s just go.” I started out east again, but stopped when the dog began to bark even louder.

“ _Laas yah nir!_ ”

On the beach, I saw three red auras, one larger than the others. The large aura was moving and the others were not. When the large aura appeared to move nearer, and felt a strong desire to flee.

“Dog, come on!” I began east again, walking backwards. The dog looked my way, then south again, then back at me. “Come!” I cried, and beckoned him my way.

When the dog once again became fixated on the oncoming danger, I knew I had to make a decision – leave, or do away with whatever was vexing this dog. I wanted to leave. I _desperately_ wanted to leave.

But I couldn’t.

“ _Laas!_ ”

I drew my sword, and waited.

As the red aura cleared the hillslope, I couldn’t make out what I was looking at, but the shape of the aura was humanoid. When I realized a fireball had been cast in my direction, I didn’t care if the caster was human.

“ _Wuld!_ ” Bursting east, I fled, but only far enough to easily dodge the fireball. “ _Tiid klo ul!_ ”

Time had slowed around me. I watched as the dog attacked the beige humanoid form, biting at a leg in slow motion. Two more beige humanoid forms lumbered toward us. One of them carried a curved sword, and the other cast another fireball.

Running, which must have been a light-speed blur to these odd monsters, I scooped up the dog in my arms and swerved northward, skirting a large tree stump and then continuing on an eastbound path. The dog was heavy, and I had to put him down not long after. I slowed time around us again with a Shout, scaring the dog. His ears flattened, and he couldn’t look me in the eyes.

“Go!” I yelled. I nudged him with my boot. “Run!”

Thankfully, the dog understood, or his reaction was simply a coincidence. The beige lumpy monsters were still chasing us, and another fireball was slowly closing in. I ducked, and the magic passed overhead, hitting a tree further up the hill.

I turned. “ _Iiz slen nus!_ ” A cloud of ice crystals sped toward the monsters, stopping the closest in its tracks. As time around me caught up to pace, the others encroached while voicing deep, unearthly groans. I turned and fled.

“ _Wuld!_ ” The Shout carried me slightly past the dog, and together we ran as fast as our tired limbs could manage. The terrain was far from flat, however, and I had to continuously avoid running into plants, rocks, tree stumps, and what I had learned the previous night were columnar basalt cliffs.

I snaked left and right, hoping this was enough to evade any oncoming fireballs. “ _Wuld!_ ” I again caught up with the much faster dog.

The land was relatively clear of obstacles again, and I turned back. My gut had been right – they were still chasing us, and still hurling fireballs. One fireball sped over the dog, flaring out against the side of a hill.

I turned back toward the monsters. “ _Fus ro dah!”_ The force of the Shout hit only one of the monsters, which disintegrated into a puff of dust. The other continued its pursuit, and a fireball was cast toward me. I started to Shout “ _Feim_ ,” but was too late.

The fireball hit my right calf. I stumbled, and fell.

“ _Feim zii gron_.” Through grit teeth I managed to form the words necessary to render me ghost-like, temporarily immaterial to everything except for the land and myself. I felt the woosh of a hand or foot or weapon attempt to slay me. The dog had turned back, and was barking between whines.

I had a minute or so of invincibility. The Shout’s magic did not stop the searing death-pains in my leg, however. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself to my feet, turned, and looked the monster in its glowing, molten eyes. Its mouth, continuously gaping, looked like the mouth of an active volcano. I had absolutely no idea what this creature was, but felt nothing but sorrow when confronted by it up close. The monster was formed of pure rage, and wanted nothing more than to kill anything and everything it encountered. I felt this. I understood.

My grace period was nearing an end. Before I turned to run again, I saw another monster closing in quickly.

“ _Wuld nah kest!_ ”

The monsters were at once far behind me, and the dog was catching up fast. But the pain in my leg was growing worse, and I wasn’t sure for how much longer I could run.

I stopped again, turned, and sent forth another cloud of ice. This time, both monsters were caught by the Shout, and turned into statues mid-stride. Instead of continuing east, I turned inland and headed north, limping as fast as I could.

Behind me came the dog, whining and yelping.

“ _Kfft_ ,” I hissed, and he quieted.

I limped along until I found another cluster of roots. Tearing off a few pieces, I drank what moisture they held, and then let myself fall flat onto my back.

“ _Laas_.”

The dog, some bugs, a bird.

_Alright. Good._

The dog lay down beside me with his jaw on my arm.

_Good._

. . . . . .

_Ice and leather contrast the ash._

_She gleams gold and turquoise._

_Of her the Spawn are frightened._

_Her approach keeps them at bay._

 

My eyes opened to a sky that was no longer a dim grey-red, but nearly devoid of all light. Twilight, and the approach of night two. At least, night two as far as I was aware.

I was still alive, judging by the intense pain in my right calf. I turned my head to the side, and the world started spinning. I looked up to the sky again. The world continued to spin.

I sensed the presence of the dog. I also sensed something else.

Someone.

Someone coming.

My heart hammered in my chest. Breaths were shallow beneath my scarf.

I knew I needed to get up, but my body wouldn’t obey. I was paralyzed, by fear or by pain, and by exhaustion.

Too little water, too much ash. Yam and cricket were not enough.

_Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud._

I wanted to call for the dog, but no sound pushed through my lips. My lungs couldn’t manage the effort.

_This is a panic attack, Deborah_.

Precious bodily fluid streamed from my left eye and down my temple in a single salty drop.

_Speak the Words. Three Words, and you will be protected. Three syllables. You know them well; Hermaeus Mora burned them into your memory._

My lips parted, and I breathed out the sounds as forcefully as I could. “ _Mul. Qah. Diiv._ ”

Were it not for the dehydration I might have cried rivers of joy as I watched pale flames encase my body and an ethereal battleaxe-wielding woman stand over me. She spun with the rest of the world.

My ghostly guardian waited, weapon rested upon her shoulder. I wondered why she did not attack the person I knew was approaching.

“ _Laas_ ,” I mouthed, possessing no more energy to give the word any extra power. As my eyes closed, the dog began to bark wildly.

A second later, I sensed the person. Human. Female.

Benevolent.

_Benevolent_.

The ash dulled the sound of footsteps until she was near. I knew that the person had halted her approach before getting too close. The dog and my guardian spirit kept her away.

I opened my eyes and concentrated on raising one of my hands. Just one hand. I could do this. I needed to signal the dog that all was well. I needed the person to know I was alive.

“Dog,” I whispered, and watched my left hand lift off the ash and hang above my body. “Dog!” I whisper-shouted.

Finally, the barking subsided, replaced by whimpers. I felt the thick fur of neck scruff and the heat of his body as he lay at my side. I managed several short strokes of his coat.

The magical flames dissipated along with the summoned dragon-spirit warrior who had not moved from her position above me. The footsteps recommenced their approach, and a soft light illuminated my immediate area.

The crunch of volcanic ash grew louder, and finally stopped behind my head. I heard the flicker and felt the heat of a torch. Slowly, the blurry, upside-down visage of a blonde woman with light-blue eyes came into view. Her leather armor appeared to be covered in ice. She knelt down, each knee flanking my head. She smelled of sweat and leather and earth.

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” she crooned as her hands rose above my face and sent forth a blinding golden light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __**Dovahzul**  
>  Laas yah nir – Aura Whisper  
> Wuld nah kest – Whirlwind Spring  
> Tiid klo ul - Slow Time  
> Iiz slen nus – Ice Storm  
> Fus ro dah – Unrelenting Force  
> Feim zii gron – Become Ethereal  
> Mul Qah Diiv – Dragon Aspect  
> Dovahkiin - dragonborn 
> 
> _**Norren**  
>  Kfft - shhh_
> 
> __**Dunmeri**  
>  s’wit - idiot  
> n'wah - outlander 


	16. Chapter 16

“ _Dovahkiin_ , are you alright?”

The bright light subsided. A woman with a travel-dusted face and narrowed eyes gazed down. Her frizzy hair was tied in two braids at the back of each side of her head. She appeared concerned.

I could see her expression. Her magic had fixed my vision.

She maneuvered a knee under my head and lowered a waterskin to my lips. “Drink,” she ordered. Her voice was soft, but stern.

The water was cold and clean. She poured small sips into my mouth until I grasped the waterskin myself and gulped greedily.

“I have another,” she said. “Drink what you need.”

Finally sated, I sat up and capped the waterskin. If I had to guess, the thing was made out of some animal’s bladder, and the stopper was a piece of polished bone.

“Thank you,” I said as I made to hand the waterskin back to the woman.

She pushed out her palm. “No. Keep it. We will refill it soon. You will need more water than I have.”

The dog, behind me, made munching noises. The woman stood and peered over me to watch. I turned to find him chewing on another water-root. Slowly, the woman approached the dog and crouched down to examine the plant.

Looking to me, she asked, “Have you chewed on this root? Tasted its water?”

“I—well, yes. The dog found it and drank, so—”

“People cannot drink from this root,” she said, standing. “Animals, yes, but people react badly, lose energy. Collapse.”

Her Norren was somewhat hesitant, but though her accent was thick – thicker than even Yrsarald’s – I understood her perfectly. Like Serana, this woman used careful diction. Norren was not her primary language.

“The root causes people to collapse?” I asked. “That—yeah, that makes sense. Yesterday we were attacked. I was tired, but….”

I recalled the burn that had been gnawing at my right calf. Leaning forward, I pulled back the ragged and charred leather of my trouser leg and saw healed, shiny pink flesh. It itched, but no more than a dozen mosquito bites would.

“You healed me,” I breathed, and looked to the woman. The notion was almost unbelievable. “How do you still have magic?”

She smiled knowingly. “I draw my magic from the land. Yours is of the sky, yes?”

I nodded.

“Mm.” The woman nodded. “The sky has been dark for too long. Already the nights in the north are dangerously cold.” She looked around us, searching for something. “Where are your companions?”

“What?”

“Your companions. Four of them, no?”

“Yes, but, how did—” Gazing at the woman, I at once recognized her from my dreams.

The woman at the temple yelling at Torug. The woman selling me mascara. The woman scaring the ash-ember monsters. In the dreams she had always held a strong, benevolent presence, and this waking moment was no different.

“You’ve been in my dreams,” I affirmed.

Her face sombered, and she bowed her head into a slow nod. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I was not certain if my summoning had succeeded. But, here you are.” Her eyes met mine in a steady glare. “You were slow, coming here.”

“Wh—slow!? Our boat was destroyed! How was I supposed to—”

“Apologies. I meant, from the year past. A bit longer. We called to you. Did you not hear us?”

“Year?” I considered her question. “No, no. I first dreamt of you only – I don’t know, not long ago. Weeks. Not a year.”

The woman sighed through her nose. Her body slumped as she hung her head.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “How did you… how did you call to me? Why? How—how do you know who, what I am and who I was traveling with?”

When she managed to look at me again, her mouth was set into a deep frown. Faint wrinkles accented her lips and brow. If I had to guess, I would have put her at about forty years old. But her wind-worn face could have been misleading, much like Stenvar’s.

“Come,” she said as she stood, offering her hand. “I am called Frea. I will explain as we walk.”

 

“When Torug came to Solstheim,” she began, “we all felt his presence, as did the Greedy Man.”

“The Greedy Man?”

She nodded. “You call him by another name. We do not speak that name here, nor any other name the Greedy Man may claim. But you may know him as a ‘Daedra’.” She paused a moment, squinting to the northeast. “There is water this way. Come.”

Now that I could see clearly, and somewhat aided by the setting gloomy sun, I was able to discern snow-capped mountains in the far north. I wondered how much further north the Antarctica-like island of Atmora was, and if northern Solstheim was just as frozen. If I recalled correctly, we were in the month of Heart Fire. The seasons were indeed turning, and temperatures in the northern cities of Skyrim would once again be bitterly cold. I worried again for those in Winterhold, but trusted the Dawnguard to attempt to feed them.

Frea found a freshwater spring which flowed into a small pool. We filled her two waterskins from the flowing water and drank with our hands. She claimed the water was clean enough to not need to boil.

I rolled up my burnt trouser leg to wash my healed, burned flesh. Another scar to add to the collection.

“The ash-born chased you,” Frea assumed. Or knew, perhaps.

“Ash-born,” I repeated. The name was fitting. “What are they?”

“Angry spirits. They are connected to the ash that falls from the volcano. More than this, I do not know.”

“Anger. Yes. I felt this. I think ice magic helped to stop them.”

“Killing ash-born is difficult,” she continued. “They do not want to die. I do not know ice magic, but perhaps it does slow them.” She patted the axe hung at her hip. “Blades _stop_ them.”

“Force worked well. Turned one to dust.”

“Force?”

I nodded. “Yes. It’s a Shout I know.”

Frea’s brow furrowed as she processed what I said. “Shouting. Yes. This is what Torug did. I do not know much about these shouts, but my magic is not very strong against them.”

“Hmph. I am weak to his Shouts, too.”

We continued eastward, toward what looked like a fortress in the distance. The longer we walked, the darker the land became, and eventually I could not see far ahead at all.

“You said that you felt Torug’s presence,” I noted. “How? And how did you know me? Send me dreams?”

“Before Torug came to Solstheim, a curse had fallen upon my people, others. All on the island were at risk of falling to Miraak’s song.”

Miraak. I had heard this name before, from Paarthurnax. This was the name of the first Dragonborn. A prideful, power-hungry man who was supposed to have lived thousands of years ago.

“I thought Miraak lived a long time ago. He was still alive?”

“Miraak had apparently made a pact with the Herma-Mora. He escaped death, but had hidden until the year past, somewhat before. I do not know why he chose to return when he did, but I heard his song. When my people began to disappear, I knew what was happening. Miraak had enslaved them, and was using them to build his temples.”

“Did you say Herma-Mora? Hermaeus Mora?”

“Yes. I believe they are the same demon.”

“Alright, let me—” I needed a moment to process this news. Hermaeus Mora had mentioned something about ‘the first’ being stolen from him. Stolen by Torug. Mora had forced me to learn a Shout which later saved me from Torug, whom Mora apparently wanted dead. Suddenly, I hated the demon a little less.

Not wanting to talk about Mora, I changed the subject. “I saw you,” I said to Frea, “in a dream, at a temple with Torug. You were yelling at each other, and he breathed fire at you.”

She nodded. “Yes. We finally came together at Miraak’s main temple, not far from my village. He requested my aid to find and kill Miraak as the Greedy Man desired. But though I wanted Miraak stopped, I could not work with Torug, not with the Greedy Man. My father and I called to you for aid, but you did not hear us, you say.”

“I didn’t—I don’t think. How did you know to call me?”

“The wind carried your name. We listened.”

I cocked a brow and looked her way. She was serious.

“Not long after this,” she continued, “something had changed – Miraak’s song had stopped. I knew Torug had killed Miraak. I found the Orsimer, again. I had gathered some people to help kill him, but he was too powerful. The others were killed. I knew then that Torug had taken into him all of Miraak’s power.”

“Wait,” I said, stopping in my tracks. My eyes locked onto Frea’s. “Torug took in Miraak’s soul?” My hands trembled.

She nodded. “I believe so, yes. He bragged about soul-power.”

My entire body vibrated with terror. “What about dragon souls? Miraak was Dragonborn! A hunter!”

How many dragons had Torug killed before he attacked me at Snow Throat? He had not yet taken into him Miraak’s soul, I knew this. But I also knew Torug had absorbed the souls of many more dragons than my two, including that of Paarthurnax. And now, Torug had within him the soul of another Dragonborn, and however many dragon souls Miraak himself had absorbed.

My lungs ceased to function.

Frea was frowning again. Her face seemed to be set in a permanent sadness. Reaching forward, she took my hands in hers and held them still. Somehow, perhaps through some magic of hers, I began to relax, and found my breath. She then let my hands drop and briefly grasped my shoulders before turning away and walking on.

“I felt great power within Torug,” she said, quiet. “I think I knew before I faced him again, once Miraak’s song stopped. I do not know how Torug defeated Miraak, but the curse had been lifted. I did not wait to ask what had happened. It did not matter, anyway.”

All was quiet for a moment. Turning to Frea, I asked, “What didn’t matter?”

She appeared on the verge of tears. “Nothing,” she breathed, voice catching in her throat. “Nothing mattered. The curse had ended with Miraak’s death, but Torug had already slaughtered my people and many others on the island during their walking sleep.”

“He—he slaughtered your people!? I’m…. What people? Why?”

“Why? I cannot know why. Greed and pride are things the Skaal do not allow ourselves to feel. To comprehend such is almost beyond our grasp.” She forcibly calmed herself, and breathed deep. “I do know that the Greedy Man drove Torug’s acts, that they were working together. Once Miraak was dead, Torug left the island, and has not returned. But then the sky fell dark—” she looked behind us toward the red remnant of the setting sun “—and no magic I knew could bring back the light. So, once again, I called to you.”

“But why me?”

“Because the All-Maker told me to. There is something I must show you, something that belonged to Miraak. I believe it is his mask. Torug dropped it as he fought us. I left it in the keeping of the Telvanni.”

I gasped and stopped walking again. “Telvanni!?”

“Yes, the elves who live east of here. You know of them?”

“Yes! They’re why I’m here! Why my companions and I came here, to Solstheim. We wanted to ask for their help in defeating Torug.”

“So I was correct – Torug yet lives.”

I nodded vigorously. “He is the reason the sky is dark. He was turned into a vampire, and he now has a vampire army. This dark sky is for them, to protect them from the sun. Regular magic is weak, now, but the Telvanni use magic from Oblivion, and some of them are necromancers.” I eyed Frea for a moment. “Your magic is strong, now.”

“Yes.” She eyed me right back.

“Then you can help us!” I cried, at once ecstatic yet pleading. “Help us fight him, and fight his vampires. Fight for your people!”

Frea crossed her arms over her chest and hunched forward slightly. “Apologies, _Dovahkiin_ , but I cannot leave Solstheim. I must protect what is left of the Skaal. I traveled south only to find you, and to help you, here.”

I fell silent, and began walking east again. Eventually, I said, “I’m sorry about your people.”

She nodded in thanks. “Much time has passed, but the wounds and anger are still fresh. But I find comfort in knowing I will see them again in the next life.”

I thought of Yrsarald and Ingjard and Wuunferth and Paarthurnax. I wondered if I would ever see them again, in this or the next, next life. I wondered if such thoughts would ever stop stinging.

“I never heard of the ‘Skaal’,” I said, readily changing the subject.

‘Skaal’ _. Rhymes with ‘_ maal’ _, Norren for ‘tattoo’._

“I am not surprised,” said Frea. “Though, there was a man from Skyrim in my village the year past. He asked many questions. Told us he wanted to write our stories.”

My heart fluttered – an ethnologist! “Was he there during Miraak’s curse?”

She nodded.

“Did—did he…?”

“Killed. Yes. At one of the Stones.”

“Stones?”

“Stones of the All-Maker. The Sun Stone is north of Tel Mithryn. If you wish, I can take you there. Indeed, perhaps you should go, to better understand.”

“Maybe. I don’t know if there’s time. I need to meet with the Telvanni, find my friends, and return to Skyrim.”

“The walk from Tel Mithryn to Raven Rock is seven days. Visiting the Stone adds to this only one day of walking.”

Grimacing, I gazed down at my boots. They had been incredibly comfortable upon leaving Fort Dawnguard, but now they were stiff, and I just knew that the soles of my feet had blisters. Another pedestrian journey back to Raven Rock was not appealing. Perhaps I would be able to somehow convince the people at Tel Mithryn to donate boots and socks to my feet.

“What is left of my people is camped now at the Sun Stone,” Frea continued. “We were forced south by the cold.”

“How many Skaal were there, before Torug? How many villages?”

“Seven villages remained after the Long Winter, before my grandfather’s time. The Southern Skaal were forced north, away from the ash and the creatures it birthed. The animals suffered as we did; deer and Skaal both starved. But those who survived made stronger children. The Skaal help the deer to not become too many, and the All-Maker helps the Skaal in this same way. But, after Torug….”

Frea remained quiet for a few minutes. I left her to her thoughts.

When she continued, her voice had regained its soft confidence. “After Miraak’s death,” she said, “after my last battle with Torug, I combed this island for the remnants of my people. I listened to the wind from all corners. I found seventeen others, many of them young.”

“Seventeen!?”

She nodded. “We were few, before. Perhaps… five hundred. Now, I fear we must find work and shelter in Raven Rock. The elves of Tel Mithryn have turned us away, but they are happy to trade with us.”

“Do you think the elves will turn me away?”

Frea looked to me, then away. “I do not know.”

The dry volcanic ash crunched beneath our feet as we plodded along. The dog had caught a piece of driftwood and was parading it around in his mouth as he ran circles around and in front of us.

“Krikit is happy,” said Frea.

I smiled, sensing that too about the dog. And then, I realized what Frea had actually said.

“Wait.” I grabbed her sleeve and stopped walking. “Did you just say ‘ _cricket’_? Where did you hear this word!?”

From the torchlight I could see Frea’s expression soften, and her eyes warm. “From the dog. He tells me his name is Krikit.”

Confusion and awe flooded my brain. “He… told you?”

She nodded once, tersely, and turned to walk on again.

“Wait,” I said, trotting to meet her stride, “how—how?”

“I am a shaman of the Skaal,” she explained. “I hear the sun and the wind and the water and the trees and the ash and the beast. It is people that are difficult to understand.”

When she turned to me, her face brightened with a pleasant smirk.

After regaining control of my slackened jaw, I returned the expression.

“Come, _Dovahkiin_ ,” she said, “tonight the old fort will give us shelter.”

“Deborah,” I corrected. “My name is Deborah.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at me, skeptical perhaps, but then nodded. “Come, Deborah.”

. . . . . .

Within the crumbling stone walls of the old fortress, I ignited a collection of deadwood with a Shout. I was worried the sound of the dragon magic would alert ash-born or pissed-off outlaws to my presence, but I didn’t sense anything coming.

The small fire did well to warm the space we had settled in. Beds and other furniture were long gone from this ruin, and the stone floor was ice-cold. We both huddled close to the flames, and the dog curled up against my thigh.

We ate a meager supper of dried meat strips Frea stored in a small pack at her hip, and roasted giant yam she had found and sliced with a large hunting dagger. The blade was made of the same icy blue metal that plated her leather armor. Though the dagger and armor surfaces were smooth, as any metal would be, the material appeared faceted like a cut diamond, and it reflected light the way a cut diamond would. The dancing campfire enlivened the armor, as if light itself was trapped inside the metal, like an enchantment. But from the armor I felt no magical signature like I could other enchanted items.

“What is this ice armor you wear?” I asked Frea. “And your dagger, too.”

Frea looked at the gauntlet on her left forearm. “It is called s _talhrim_. It means ‘enchanted ice’ in your language. It is not true ice, but forms as ice forms, through magic. As you can see, _stalhrim_ can be forged into weapons and armor. It is hard as stone and light as steel.” She held her forearm out to me and gave a nod, inviting me to feel the material.

The metal was cool to the touch, though not as cold as ice, and was as smooth as I thought it would be. With a fingernail I tapped the surface, and the ting was no different than steel.

Light from the fire reflected from the gauntlet and into my eyes, forcing me to look away. I huffed a laugh, and let go of Frea’s arm. “I think if you stood in full sunlight, your enemies would be blinded.”

That was the first time I heard Frea laugh. She smiled through faintly suppressed chuckles, and reached for the stick we were using to stoke the fire. “This, Deborah, is exactly what my ancestors did.”

Sparks rose gently from the flames as the small logs resettled. Frea reclined against the fortress wall, and as she stared into the fire, her smile faded. Sadness emanated from her again, and I again allowed her the silence she appeared to need.

A moment later, she reached under the brim of her chest armor and pulled on a sinew cord. Small beads of the same enchanted ice were knotted into the cord, and tied at the end was a round steel or silver amulet. Frea stared at the amulet in silence, and I acquiesced to the dog’s requests for rubs.

Cricket. That’s what the dog had told Frea his name was. For some reason, the dog thought the unknown word I had repeatedly said to him after he hunted a giant cricket-like creature was what I had settled on calling him. In Norren, there was only one letter with a K sound, so the name would be spelled with Ks. Kriket. But when Frea had said the word, she pronounced “cricket” as I did.

Krikit.

As there was no short-I pronunciation in Norren or, I assumed, Frea’s language, she had said the word with slightly longer I sounds, somewhere between “krihkiht” and “kreekeet”, and with a trilled R.

“Krikit,” I whispered in the Norren way to the dog as he turned on his back for even more intense belly rubs. “Good Krikit. Good boy.”

I heard Frea shift. She was tucking the amulet beneath her armor. She then stood, and announced, “I need to make water.” She exited our camping area, leaving her small pack behind but taking her axe.

 

After what felt like a longer time than necessary to remove leggings, pee, and redress, I made a torch out of a long piece of wood and set out looking for Frea, Krikit following close behind.

The fortress was extensive, but only corners of rooms and the bases of some walls were still standing. Night had fallen, meaning the ash-covered land barely contrasted against the dark stones. Unless Frea had Khajiit-like night vision, she needed some source of light to see by. She hadn’t left the camp area with any sort of torch.

Looking down to Krikit, I asked, “Can you find her? Can you find Frea?”

Krikit gazed up at me with a happy open mouth and lopping tongue. He momentarily ceased his panting to cock his head. I wondered if he understood Norren. I wondered if he understood anything. But he somehow derived that I had unwittingly given him a name, so he must have been accustomed to interaction with people.

“Find Frea,” I repeated.

With a quiet whine, Krikit began to sniff the stone flooring. I followed him patiently as he attempted to pick up or follow Frea’s trail. As he sniffed, I listened, and breathed, “ _Laas_.”

Sure enough, I saw the red cloud of a living thing, far enough away to be somewhat faint. Listening to my dragon sense, I knew it was Frea. With practice, I had come to learn that using the Shout allowed me to feel certain signatures that varied between individuals as much as it did between species, but only if I concentrated deeply on that signature. I had first learned how to do this by practicing on Ingjard.

The Shout told me that Frea was alive, and not in danger. I deliberated approaching her, or simply letting her be. My gut drove me to do the former.

As I made my way to her, the makeshift torch I had been carrying burned out, and I was swallowed by the night.

“Shit,” I muttered.

Before I could say the life-seeking Shout again, a burst of golden light shined not too far away, and the area remained lit.

“I am here,” I heard Frea call.

When I finally rounded the corner to the hideaway she had confined herself to, I watched as she shaped an orb of healing magic into a stationary object, like that of Magelight. She placed the orb between her spread legs, and then laid onto the floor the amulet she had previously been gazing at. I sat opposite her, my back to the open air. Krikit attack-licked my chin before wandering off.

“Those who knew how to forge _stalhrim_ are no longer living,” Frea said as she eyed the amulet. “I never learned the secrets, the skill. As shaman, I should have, but there had been no time, and we do not write our words. My father, shaman before me, had learned the secrets to _stalhrim_. He died before he had the chance to tell me all he knew.”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.

Through our mutual silence, I could just about hear the ocean waves, but there was also a delicate hum sounding from Frea’s orb of what I supposed was healing magic, its power sourced from the earth.

“Frea,” I said softly, “can you teach me your magic? That comes from the land and not the sky?”

“No. The magic I have cannot be taught. It is in my blood, gifted by the All-Maker.”

I was disappointed, but not surprised, just as I couldn’t teach her how to be Dragonborn. “Is the All-Maker one of your gods?”

“The All-Maker is not a ‘god’,” she said, somewhat annoyed. “The All-Maker is the Creator of all life. From the All-Maker, all life flows, and to the All-Maker all life will return. As shaman….” She paused a moment and hunched forward, grasping her shin plates. “As shaman,” she continued, softer, “it is my duty to guide my people through life, and then back to the All-Maker, when their time comes.” She reached for the amulet she had previously laid down, and gazed at it as she righted her posture. “I made this amulet, to protect me from Miraak’s song. It has no use, now, but….” With an end of the sinew cord in each hand, Frea reached behind her neck and refastened the clasp.

“My people,” she said, “my culture is taking in its final breaths. I can do nothing more than to comfort them in their final days. They believe that Thartaag has come and gone, and that we are now facing the End of Seasons.” She lifted her gaze to the void above our heads. “But I do not feel it – the end. I hear hope in the wind.” Frea leaned forward, demanding my gaze. “Through the All-Maker, and the visions I receive, I have come to believe that you, _Dovah—_ Deborah, are the balance this world needs. As long as you live, as long as you succeed, the End of Seasons will not come. As _Dovahkiin_ you are the voice and the body and the spirit of the All-Maker. This—” she motioned above her “—the sky, the curse, this is why you are here, why you breathe. You have doubted this, I know. But there is no room for doubt, not when you are needed.” She reclined against the broken fortress wall and looked away. “Trust the words of a woman who understands.”

No more words were spoken that night. We silently made our way back to our modest camp where Frea quickly fell asleep. My stomach was growling again, and I ate some more roasted yam and jerky.

Later, Krikit returned, and pressed up against me as I idly drew pictures in the ash-covered stone floor.


	17. Chapter 17

_Yrsarald’s eyes strained low, attempting to see my hands. His bushy beard was in the way._

_“What are you doing down there, honeybee?”_

_Smirking, I suppressed a giggle. “You will see.” His mirror stood behind him, and I would not let him turn around._

_“I need to get dressed,” he reminded._

_“You told me that you don’t have to meet anyone for hours. And I—” I gave him a peck on the lips “—need to give you another birthday present.”_

_The man’s chest rumbled with a low, sleepy chuckle. “I am still recovering from the first.”_

_I flashed him a wry smile, but continued my task. I was braiding one corner of his long, red-brown beard, a tiny accent that would stand out once I trimmed the rest. Wax from the lit candle at our bedside would hold the hair in place for a while. The braid was tiny, only the length of half my thumb and no wider than a pencil. Another braid was set on the other side._

_The beard itself didn’t take all that long to groom. It took shape nicely at the length of the braids, puffing a bit in the front but trimmed closer to the jaw further back. The sight was very different from his neat goatee I first saw him sporting, and much better than the Wild Man mess he had ignored before my return to Windhelm._

_“Alright,” I said, “go and look.”_

_Yrsarald shot me a skeptical look while standing, and approached the tall mirror. He halted halfway there, moved a hand to his beard, and then continued his approach. He studied his beard’s makeover intensely._

_“Well?” I asked, peering in from the side._

_A moment after running his pinched fingers down each braid, he grunted in approval. “I like it.”_

_“I’ve seen some men wear braids like this. I thought it might look good on you. It does.”_

_He turned to me, smiling._

_“Now,” I said before grasping a lock of his thick, shoulder-length hair. “What do you want to do with this?”_

_“My hair does not need trimming.”_

_“I know. But you wanted to wear it back, yes?”_

_“Mm. Something similar to Ulfric’s. But not like Ulfric’s.”_

_“He doesn’t wear it back, just with braids to the sides. Hmm. Maybe…” I pulled some of Yrsarald’s hair behind his head, forming a half-ponytail. “Something like this?”_

_Yrsarald gazed at himself for a moment before holding a single finger up before him. He walked over to a short wardrobe, rummaged around a bit in the top drawer, and returned with two large gold beads, about as wide as his thumb._

_“They are meant for wearing in hair,” he said, offering the beads to me, “to hold it. I have not worn them in years.” He started for his chair again. “I can’t put them in myself. Well, I can, but—” he turned back, blushing “—it will not look good.”_

_Chuckling, I followed Yrsarald to the chair, grabbed his brush, and set out to make him pretty._

 

The feeling of warm fur behind me brought back a pleasant memory – of awakening in Yrsarald’s cave, him sleeping behind me in werebear form. Or had I dreamt that? I couldn’t recall. I reached back, and the fur came to life with a bark.

My partially imagined universe imploded as I recalled the memory-dream of decorating Yrsarald’s beard for his forty-forth birthday. His last birthday. His _last_ birthday.

I instinctively clutched the amulet of Mara as the usual pains stabbed their way through my soul.

“I dream of them, too,” I heard Frea mutter, “the lost. My fear… is that they will not be able to find their way to the All-Maker. But I have found many of the dead, and have said the necessary prayers. It is all one person can do.”

I sat up and hugged my knees. Frea was eyeing me intently. Krikit had wandered off again.

Looking away, I said, “I don’t know where he—Yrsarald—is. My… he would have been my husband. Torug’s vampires attacked the city and he….” I closed my eyes, and swallowed the pain that came with the memory. “Do you feel spirits? Do you think you could feel him?”

After a moment, she slowly shook her head. “It does not work this way. I can only hear those who call to me, and this does not often happen.”

I buried my head behind my knees. I then felt a hand upon my shoulder, and a firm squeeze.

“Come, Deborah,” Frea said as she handed me my filled waterskin. “It is still three days to Tel Mithryn.”

. . . . . .

The second night east of the fort, we camped on the banks of a fairly wide river, one that we would have to cross to get to Tel Mithryn. I couldn’t see much from the river, but the city supposedly rose high in the highlands of the southeastern corner of Solstheim.

“If the sky was not clouded,” Frea explained, “and the moons and stars gave their light, we would see the mushrooms from here.”

I looked up from the yam I was slicing and stared at Frea. “Did you say ‘mushrooms’?”

She nodded. “Can you not smell them?”

I sniffed the air. “I smell something, but I thought maybe it was just the river or the sea. Or something dead in the river or the sea.”

When Frea laughed, her healthy teeth gleamed against the firelight. This was the first time I had noticed how white and clean they were compared to the teeth of others. Of _all_ others in Skyrim. Those with more money, like Yrsarald, tended to have better teeth. His had even been better than Ulfric’s. Perhaps that was due to where Yrsarald was born and how he had lived for the first decade of his life. Stenvar had taken good care of his teeth, but he was missing two. I did recall that Elodie had relatively clean and healthy teeth, even for being something like one hundred years old. Brelyna’s and Ingjard’s had been in fair shape, but Ralof’s and Thrynn’s were not good, particularly for men younger than myself. I wondered how Frea’s teeth looked like they had been professionally cleaned. It was likely due to her diet. The people of Skyrim had candies and cakes – perhaps these Skaal did not.

“I’m still not sure what you mean,” I said. “What mushrooms? The Telvanni grow mushrooms?”

Perhaps they cultivated a mushroom farm. That would definitely account for the dead-fish-on-a-pig-farm stench that wafted into our small camp from time to time.

“Yes,” she said, still chuckling, crow’s feet flanking her eyes.

Clearly I was missing something, which highly amused her. “I don’t understand why you’re laughing,” I said, accidentally sounding more annoyed than I actually was.

Frea calmed, and continued her task of breaking down deadwood for the fire. “I think I will let your eyes see,” she said, looking at the wood and not at me. “Perhaps the dim sun will be enough, in the morning.”

I grumbled, but Frea ignored me. Her expression had neutralized and then reset into its default saddened form.

When I was mid-slice through the yam, a peculiar ache pulled at my lower abdomen. I stopped slicing, distracted, but then the ache went away and I continued. And then the ache came back with a vengeance, and I was suddenly aware of a familiar dampness between my legs.

“Oh, shit,” I murmured, and let the dagger fall onto the ash.

I was on my knees and partially keeled forward when Krikit came over and inquisitively sniffed my crotch.

“ _Goddamn it,_ ” I hissed in English and gently shoved the dog away.

I had expected to resume my menses at any time since Virald’s birth, as I had not breastfed at all. I had packed the necessary items just in case. My knapsack was likely at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts.

Seconds later, a palm pressed firmly against my abdomen. The warmth of healing magic swept over me, and the agony of menstrual cramps subsided, somewhat. Frea then walked away, took a drink from her waterskin, sat down, and stoked the fire.

“Thank you,” I said between deep breaths.

“You do not have supplies, I assume.”

I shook my head. “No. My knapsack was missing when I woke up on the beach.”

“Hm. No matter. Your leggings were already damaged. The elves will have something to trade.”

“I don’t have anything to trade,” I reminded her. “And I am already going to ask for their help for something much bigger than loincloths and armor.”

Frea smiled. “A favor for a favor. The elves know me. They know I will repay them, in time. And there are women in Tel Mithryn. They will give you what you need.”

A dull, flashing light in the ocean caught our eyes. It was the same calm light I had seen when I awoke on the island.

“What is that?” I asked.

“The _netch_ attract fish this way,” she said.

I looked back at Frea, confused. “What is a ‘netch’?”

She smiled. “Come, I will show you.”

 

We walked down to the beach, Krikit following. Frea told me to remain alert, as ash-born could attack at any moment.

Between her palms, Frea formed an orb of healing light and urged it to grow until it was double the size of a basketball. She then pushed it forward. The orb flew over the water and made its way southward. The slowly blinking lights in the water did not move.

“Watch,” Frea breathed.

As the orb of magic continued on its way, it illuminated what looked like three rocks, except two of the rocks were hovering over the water and had tentacles. The orb eventually faded, but not before I watched one of the rocks with tentacles lower itself to the water’s surface. The gentle lights continued to go on and off, and I began to hear what sounded like delicate whales’ songs.

“Netch,” I said, repeating the word Frea had used. “What are they?”

“Animals from the mainland beyond the sea. Morrowind. Killing a netch is a great honor amongst my people, but hunting them does not happen often, as the animals are too rare.” She turned away from the sea and returned uphill toward our camp. “The netch are gentle creatures. They are no danger to us if we are no danger to them.”

That night, I was lulled to sleep by the songs of happy netches.

. . . . . .

I awoke on a cold, dark morning next to a doused fire, and looked up to find a naked Frea folding her belongings into a makeshift bag made of her underarmor leggings. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and watched Frea work. As she tugged her leggings tight and into a soft knot, muscles across her entire body flexed and rippled. She was built similarly to Ingjard, sturdy with some roundness, with just as many scars, if not more. Delicate blue tattoos swirled around half of her body, accentuated by what looked like meaningful markings.

“Why are you naked?” I asked Frea flatly.

The woman hoisted her belongings above her head and gazed down at me. The modicum of eastern morning light illuminated her figure just enough to see every bit of her.

“We must cross the river,” she said. “The water is deep, and hide is heavy, wet.”

Breaking camp was easy when you had nothing but the clothes on your back and a sword at your hip. Even our meager food and water supply was strapped to our belts. I looked around for Krikit, who was not far, close to the black sand beach. Before I made my way to the riverbank, I gave the loudest whistle I could manage. Krikit heard, and started for me at a doggy gallop.

As the darkened sun rose higher, I saw what looked like looming, giant mushrooms at the top of the southeastern cliff. I had had no reason to disbelieve Frea’s claim, but it was still a shocking, peculiar sight. The fungi must have been gargantuan.

Frea was halfway across the river when I reached the bank. Within a heartbeat, a Shout had me standing on the east bank of the river, safe and dry. I turned back to Frea, who had stopped mid-ford to gawk at me. I laughed, stepped toward her, and reached down.

“Hand me your things,” I said as I waved her forward.

“What—” she grunted as she tossed me her wad of belongings. “Was that another Shout?”

“Yep.” I put down the wad and offered my hand to pull her out of the water. Gooseflesh and turgid nipples revealed just how cold the water was. “You didn’t give me time to tell you,” I said, “I could have taken us both across. I’ve done it before. Perhaps I should have said, last night.” Looking west, Krikit was still on the western bank, barking.

_“Wuld nah kest._ ” Dragon magic sent me there and back again without much effort. The Shout had become easy, almost as effortless as the one that revealed life. Krikit was silent for a moment, clearly stunned by the rumblings caused by the Shouts and the fast movement. I patted his head, crooned that everything was fine, and he licked my wrist.

“Good boy,” I assured him.

“Do you have a Shout to dry me?” Frea called. Given her neutral expression, she was not joking.

She had nothing that could be used as a towel, except for perhaps her underarmor hide clothing. She simply stood there naked, hands on her hips, waiting for the gentle ocean breeze to do its job. Her ease at being exposed in front of an audience was as impressive as her figure. She was definitely attractive, and a little bit intimidating.

I thought about her request for a moment, but no, I couldn’t think of a way to dry her without also knocking her back through the air with deadly force.

“Sorry,” I said. “We can wait here until you’re dry.”

Frea looked around a moment, said, “Eh,” while shrugging, and picked up her belongings. “Come. There is a path up the cliff. This way.”

 

Maybe half an hour later, Frea finally redressed, and we ate some more strips of dried meat.

“You had said your boat was destroyed,” she noted. “Did you sail east, past Raven Rock?”

“Yes. The boatman said he couldn’t, but… one of my companions forced him to.”

“The remains of many ships litter the shores. The sea dragon is ancient. She has moved from the northern sea. It is too cold there, now.” Frea turned to me. “You should have listened to the boatman.”

“Yes. Thank you. I know that, now.”

A moment later, she said, “Perhaps your companions returned to Raven Rock.”

I released a long, quiet sigh. “Perhaps.”

The higher we climbed, the more imposing the smell of fungus became. I also, later in the day, became aware of a sort of magical energy, the kind I had felt when near places where the Eye of Magnus had been, or where strong wards were cast.

When the clouded sun was about to set, we cleared the top of the path, and were confronted by a purple wall of magic about ten meters ahead. I knew the magic was a ward. I could feel its strength. But the wards I could cast, and have seen cast by others, were always blue. This ward was not Aetherial magic, but from Oblivion.

“ _Laas yah nir_.” I waited for my senses to tell me who or what awaited ahead.

“That is another Shout?” Frea asked, and I nodded.

“This one I don’t usually need to say, or ‘shout’. But voicing the words give them more strength. If I do not use my voice, I’m told that I might lose my mind to the dragons inside of me.”

Frea stared at me a moment, and then nodded and looked back to the ward. “This ward was not here during my last visit,” she said. “Perhaps there have been attacks. Ash-born and burnt spirits are always a danger in the south.”

“Burnt spirits?”

She nodded. “Spirits that once lived in the trees and forests of southern Solstheim. When the land was burned, so were they.”

How a spirit could be burned was beyond my understanding. Perhaps she was referring to some sort of fairy. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

My Shout had sensed dozens of elves behind the ward. They knew we were there, but were wary, not malevolent.

“How well do you know these elves?” I asked Frea.

“I have traded with them several times. And as I said, they hold the mask of Miraak.”

“Alright. So, how do we tell them that we are here in peace?”

At that, Frea sat herself down on the ash. “We wait.”

I stared at her for a moment. “Wait? Why?”

“It is custom. We wait until they come to us.” She whipped out another slice of jerky and tugged at the end with her perfect teeth.

Meanwhile, my loincloth and leggings were becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the continual saturation by blood, and attracting too much attention from Krikit. I worried I would soon attract unfriendly beasts.

Frea was still working on the same bit of jerky when the purple ward flickered, and a separation widened before us. Krikit began to bark in rapid succession, but was not growling. I considered this a sign that we were not about to be attacked, but rather that someone unknown to the dog was simply approaching.

After a brief anticipatory moment, a robed and hooded woman and relatively young, clean-shaven man with the typical dark Dunmeri hair passed through the ward separation, which closed once they had cleared the magical shield.

Frea and I stood to greet them, and Krikit finally hushed.

“Shaman,” the man said with a voice far lighter than expected, based on his perturbed expression. His tone was almost accusatory. I was a bit annoyed at his lack of addressing Frea by her name, and I wondered if ‘shaman’ was an insult among the Telvanni.

“Talvas,” my companion responded, which I assumed was the man’s name. There was no physical greeting, no clasping of forearms, nothing. I wondered if there was no such custom on this island, or among the Telvanni or Skaal. Perhaps these two simply didn’t like one another.

“You remember Varona,” the man named Talvas said, indicating the woman at his side.

“Yes,” Frea said. “Greetings.” Again, no physical greeting. “I have come for the mask of the Dragonborn,” she said, using the Norren term for _Dovahkiin_. She then turned to me. “And I have found its rightful bearer.”

_Rightful bearer?_

Talvas eyed me up and down. The woman at his side, Varona, said and did nothing.

“Right,” Talvas said, and turned back to the ward. “Follow me.”

The purple wall of magic parted once again and Frea followed the two elves.

“Is Neloth here?” Frea asked.

At her question, Talvas stopped in his tracks and turned around, but Varona continued forward. An angry look crossed Talvas’s face, and his already sharp, heavy brows angled even more toward his nose. “No,” he answered, “Neloth is not here.” He then continued forward, and we followed.

Frea looked to me, her expression still neutral but with a hint of worry.

Krikit remained close to my other side.

Inside the ward wall, I was able to see the mushrooms much more clearly. The magic glowed brightly, providing as much circumferential light as daylight would.

There were mushrooms as high as my ankle, and mushrooms taller than a giraffe. The taller they were, the wider their stalks, and I thought I saw what looked like lanterns illuminating round doors built into the largest of the mushrooms. One of them had a staircase carved into what looked like roots.

Looking around, there were at least three dozen of these mushroom houses – if they were indeed houses. Judging by the lack of any other architecture, I assumed my assessment was an accurate one.

When we reached the base of the staircase that led up to the biggest mushroom house, Talvas stopped. Varona had been waiting for him.

“I will get your mask,” Talvas said before ascending the staircase.

Turning to Frea, I whisper-shouted, “You didn’t tell me the mushrooms were houses. And what did you mean ‘rightful bearer’ of the mask? I am not Miraak.”

“You are _Dovahkiin_ ,” she answered calmly. “Miraak was _Dovahkiin_. The mask must not go to Torug, and it cannot be destroyed. It must go to you.”

She turned away and gazed at the towering mushroom ahead of us. It must have stood as tall as a modern Earth office building, and its bloom at the top was wide enough to fit a football field.

“And, yes,” she said. “These mushrooms, the larger, older ones, are the homes of the Telvanni. As I said to you, I wanted you to see, with your own eyes.” She turned back to me. “Would you have believed me, if you had not?”

Straining my neck again to take in the enormity before me, I shook my head and said, “No, no. I wouldn’t have. This is crazy. It must stink inside.”

Frea chuckled at that, and we waited for Talvas to return.

“There you are,” called a distant, lofty voice. The woman’s tone had a sweetness to it. “I was beginning to worry. Oh! A boar! Azura, I haven’t had fresh meat in ages.”

I casually looked around to find the woman who was so excited about boar. I then realized how hungry I was. I was also reminded of how much I needed a change of clothes and some sort of sanitary pad.

“I almost did not get him,” another woman said in a deeper, more syrupy voice. “This crossbow still needs some work.”

“We’ll get it right,” the sweet woman said.

And then I saw them, in the shadows before another mushroom tower. Two tall Dunmer women, one robed, and one in what looked like leather armor. The two of them then turned toward me and walked into the light of a lantern. As they walked, the robed woman put her arm around the other’s waist, and kissed her cheek. And though they were still far away, I could see that the woman in armor only had one arm.

The pair continued forward and I stepped slowly into their path. I was drawn to them, but they barely noticed my approach. Just before they would have crashed into me, they stopped. The robed woman gasped, and they both stared at the intruder in front of them.

I had recognized the pair long before I saw their faces, but I waited for them to realize who I was. It took the warrior with one arm far less time to react. She grimaced almost immediately. But the mage, after regaining her composure, needed a moment longer. She leaned in toward me and squinted before standing straight again.

“Deborah?” the mage breathed. “Is it—”

“Hello, Brelyna,” I said, incapable of not smiling.

A breath later, the mage leapt forward and wrapped her arms around me in an embrace. Behind her, Jenassa looked on, unmoved.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wuld nah kest - Whirlwind Sprint


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention that I got my PhD in Anthropology? (archaeology)
> 
> Well I got my PhD.
> 
> You may now call me Dr. Sky.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I have one more chapter to post before I'm out of chapters to post. Turns out what's to come is hard to write...

“So it’s true,” said Brelyna as she reached toward my face, her fingers barely touching my skin as they traced the scars. “Stenvar told us.”

“Stenvar?” I repeated, hopeful. “When? When did you see him?”

I likely came off as a bit too eager, perhaps frantic, since Brelyna balked at her answer and gave me an inquisitive look.

“Not long after—after it happened.” My mage friend frowned then, deeply. “Oh, Deb, I’m so, so sorry about Yrsarald. Truly.” She looked to Jenassa, who remained silent and steadfast in her grumpiness. Brelyna then elbowed her mate. Girlfriend. Wife? “Jen!” she breathed.

“Mm. Yes,” said Jenassa, clearly forced. “Terribly sorry. Many of Windhelm’s citizens died, that day. Have you been crowned Jarl, yet?”

“Wh—what?” Stunned, I needed a moment to process her question. “Why would—?”

Oh. Right. I killed Jarl Yrsarald. I killed him. Me. Though any number of the people in the courtyard that night could have, would have done the same, and Altanir had finished the job, it was my sword that had pierced his lungs. Mine.

I was Jarl of Windhelm, if I chose to be.

Jarl of a lost city.

“No,” I finally answered. “I’m not Jarl. I never left Riften, until the sky went dark. I don’t know if anyone is Jarl of Windhelm. The city was lost completely to the vampires, a while ago.”

Brelyna gasped and recoiled in shock. Jenassa barely blinked.

“Lost?” Brelyna breathed. “Did, did Marc a-and—”

“No,” I assured her quickly. “No, Marc and Bird and Flavia are fine. They were in Riften with me.” Brelyna’s body visibly relaxed. I refrained from mentioning what happened to Riften, and most of its citizens. “Were you here when the sky went dark?” I asked them.

“Yes,” answered Brelyna as she smoothed her palms down the front of her robe. “We’ve been here for several months.”

I nodded, inhaled deeply, and then asked, “When did you last see Stenvar?” Brelyna’s expression was blank, so I looked to Jenassa.

The warrior attempted to conceal her sigh. “In Winterhold, not long after he visited Riften. Many months ago.”

_Breathe_. “Did he have his horse? The golden mare, Honey?”

Jenassa nodded.

“Oh,” I uttered, barely.

“Why?” Brelyna asked. “What’s wrong?”

My chin began to tremble, and my chest was weighted by an invisible boulder.

The mage stepped forward. “Deb?”

_I can’t breathe._ Fumbling for the words I needed to say, I opened my mouth, and stumbled through my thoughts. “I, I think—”

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” called a sturdy voice. Frea approached, and nodded in greeting to the two women before me. “Talvas returns with the mask,” she informed me.

“Alright.” I was thankful for the interruption. I needed all the distractions I could get. Before following Frea, I turned back to my elven friends. “So, you’ll be here for a while? In Tel Mithryn?”

“Yes,” said Brelyna. “Initially I wanted to come to see relatives. Now….” She glanced around us at the illuminated mushrooms. “I figured this place was safer than most. I had heard about more vampire attacks in Skyrim. If they’ve taken Windhelm….” She shook her head. “Seeing you, though, makes me very happy. But why are you here? On Solstheim?”

“I came here for the Telvanni,” I said, “for their help. We need mages. Conjurers. Necromancers. Anyone with a strong connection to Oblivion. My magic is gone. And if _my_ magic is gone….” I looked to Frea, still wondering if I could recruit her aid. The shaman remained expressionless. I turned back to Brelyna. “I also need some supplies. Can I find you later?”

“Of course.” Brelyna smiled broadly as she answered. “We’re living there.” She motioned to one of the smaller mushroom houses in the direct they had originally been walking. “We have extra rooms and beds, too, for you and your friend.” The mage stepped up to me, grasped my shoulder and squeezed, and then headed for her mushroom.

Frea motioned me in the direction Talvas had gone, and I followed her lead.

Before we met the man I presumed to be the leader or headman of the Telvanni at the base of the massive mushroom’s sloping staircase, I felt a strong wave of compulsion forward. A physical beckoning. The sensation was similar to what I felt towards Dawnbreaker, and towards Serana. 

When Talvas neared the base of the steps, a blue magical glow flared from his hands which held the mask. He halted his descent to examine the object, and the glow faded. Frea and I neared, and I could see the glint of bronze or gold.

“It… it changed,” Talvas noted.

“Changed?” asked Frea.

“Look for yourself,” he said as he finally reached the ground and held the mask up for Frea to see.

A moment later, Frea turned to me with a stunned expression, and then looked back to the mask. She reached for the object, and Talvas obliged.

All I could see was a simple mask, one with the look of a woman, accented by some designs. I still felt drawn to the thing, and had to remind myself that grabbing was not polite.

“What did it look like before?” I asked, peering over Frea’s arm.

“Before,” Frea said, “it held the look of creatures summoned by the Herma-Mora to protect him, do his bidding. Seekers, they are called. Magical creatures. Intelligent. But now….” The shaman turned to me, and with the mask supported by her armored forearm, offered for me to take it. “Now the mask looks like you.”

Skeptical, I grasped the mask and, ignoring for the moment the tingle of magic I felt on my fingertips, moved into the light of a nearby lantern. Really, the mask looked nothing like me. It was simply the stylized face of a woman, with eyes more slanted than my own, and a nose much less thick. A diadem, perhaps a diamond, was faceted between strong, curved brows. Above the brows were two shorter ridges, looking almost like an exaggerated brow wrinkle with a pointed peak in the center. Behind these ridges was a central bump that was the culmination of a faint vertical midline ridge, almost like an anteriorly extended sagittal crest that animals with strong jaw muscles had. Flanking this central bump were short inward-curved horns.

The ridges and horns made up what looked like a fancy helm that surrounded the face of the mask. Pointy and very sharp protrusions flared forward and up like stylized flames or hair. The protrusions rested against each side’s jaw, cheek, and the outer corner of the eye, and those on top of the mask above where the ears would be curved toward the center of the helm like short antlers. The mask was practically a helm by itself, but had no means of staying on a head or protecting the back of one.

“This doesn’t look like me,” I corrected Frea. “It’s just a woman.” I looked again at the mask. It was humming with energy, and I felt an incredible urge to place it on my face. I didn’t trust objects that had desires. “But I feel its enchantment,” I said. “It wants me to wear it.” I peered up at Talvas. “Should I? Wear it?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve already studied it, though this shift in form is new. If it were me, I would toss it into the sea. But Frea believes it must be protected, kept from this Torug creature. I believe her now, what she said about you being its rightful owner. All the better. I want nothing more to do with it.” Talvas turned back around and began ascending the steps he had just come down.

“Wait!” I called. “I need to ask—”

“Tomorrow, _Dovahkiin_ ,” Frea interjected. “We will speak more with Talvas tomorrow.”

“But my companions!” I turned from Frea to Talvas. “Have others from Skyrim come here in the last several days? Two Nords, one Redguard, and a Bosmer.”

“No,” Talvas answered curtly, needing no thought on the matter.

At that, the man nodded a sort of bow and stepped up to his home.

Frea offered me the awkward half-smile of sympathy. “They will be in Raven Rock. You will find them.”

As we walked across a swath of ash toward Brelyna and Jenassa’s mushroom, Frea asked, “Your elf mage friend is also Telvanni, yes? Perhaps now is the best time for you to put on this mask, to see what happens, when I and your friend are with you.”

I considered Frea’s words, and had to agree. Now, surrounded by mages, was likely the best time to give in to temptation and don this mask. If I turned into some horrible monstrosity, who better to strike me down?

But first, I needed a change of underwear and some supplies from Brelyna, and perhaps some new trousers. And a bath. Definitely a bath.

. . . . . .

Musk, fish, mold, and sulfur, with undertones of death. That’s what the inside of a giant mushroom smelled like, though the longer I remained inside the fainter the stench became. There were windows, though opening them would have let in ash if the wind was sturdy enough. To compensate for the smell, Brelyna used scented oil lamps that burned the essence of flowers. An expensive amenity.

There were no actual baths in this place, but a washbasin filled with boiled river water was good enough.

In the morning, I would see if there were any trousers or leggings that I could wear in the one shop in Tel Mithryn. If not, I would have to either wait for a new pair to be made, or patch something onto the pair that I had, blood stain or no blood stain.

“Cloths, moss, and dried root shavings,” called Frea from outside the small guestroom I was offered.

“What?” I asked mid-scrub, unsure if I heard her correctly.

Before I could reach for a towel and walk to the round wooden door, the door opened, and in stepped Frea. She ignored me and my nudity and immediately headed for the bed, which was just a lumpy mattress on the floor, and there unloaded the off-white bundle she was holding.

I stood frozen, a naked deer in headlights, shielded only from the crotch down by a washbasin as Frea turned to me, waiting for something. Arms crossed over my breasts, I looked to Frea, then to a random object in the room, and then to the floor.

I had no idea what to say. “Em….”

“Do you need further healing?”

I managed to look her in the eyes. “H-healing? For?” I could feel my ears burning.

“For your womb.”

“Oh. Oh, no. I’m alright. Thank you.” I eyed the lump of linens and things on my mattress. “Thank you for the things.”

“You were lucky to know two women here. They had much to spare.”

“Mhmm.” I was starting to get cold.

“I will see you for the evening meal.”

Without another word, I heard the door close. Thankfully, Frea was on the other side of it.

I finished washing, and inspected the contents on the bed. Sure enough, there were wads of dry moss, thin strips of a cork-like plant which must have been root shavings, and typical lady-time cloths and leather thongs with which to secure them. I quickly fashioned one of the pocketed cloths stuffed with moss and root into what I had once jokingly told Yrsarald was my “regularly-scheduled battle bandage”.

He loved that.

As I fashioned the makeshift menstrual pad into a sort of skimpy loincloth, Krikit watched me quietly from the mattress, which he had quickly claimed. His soft brown eyes appeared tired, and I wondered from his head-on-paws position if he was sad.

When I crouched down to offer him a pat and a scritch and a ruffle of his scruff, his exponentially faster-wagging tail and cheerful yip proved otherwise.

 

Later that night, I slipped into a simple set of night clothes loaned by Jenassa and crawled into the lumpy bed. As I attempted to get comfortable, desperately wanting sleep, I felt an unexpected loneliness.

Brelyna, one of my best friends, was in a room right next to mine, settling in for the night with Jenassa. I had not seen Brelyna since after the incident at the temple of Meridia, where Jenassa’s left arm had been shattered by a powerful ice spell. The two women were not twenty footsteps away, and yet I felt as if they were in another country.

Frea was somewhat more removed, staying the night in a smaller spare room in the mushroom house. After traveling with the shaman for several days, I had grown fond of her. She reminded me of Ingjard. Though no one could ever replace my lost friend and bodyguard, Frea seemed like someone I could become friends with. She was a woman who had survived tragedy; we had common ground to start from.

Though Krikit, gently snoring beside me, was company enough, to my surprise I realized it was being surrounded by people that I missed. My family in Riften, rooms full of people in the Ratways and at Fort Dawnguard, two weeks on the road with companions, a bustling Dunmeri city, and then nothing, except for Krikit.

Altanir, Neriwen, Serana, and Thrynn might be dead, and only the gods knew if my family was alright.

The lumpy mattress became too soft, and I longed for a bed made of ash, warmed by campfire and companionship.


	19. Chapter 19

After changing into a new pair of trousers and boots bought from the local merchant with Brelyna’s gifted money, I headed to Talvas’s mushroom house, Frea at my side. Thankfully, after a wash and scrub, my top armor, underclothes, and scarf were all wearable again, no longer stiff from salt and ash.

Brelyna elected to not attend the meeting, claiming the new mayor of mushroom town – my words, not hers – didn’t like her much.

The act of ascending the broad sloping staircase up to Talvas’s door had a similar mix of foreboding and determination to climbing the steps to High Hrothgar. On neither occasion did the people at the summit expect me to ask for their help. On neither occasion were they obliged to help me. On both occasions, I knew that “no” was not an acceptable answer.

Earlier that morning, Frea had inquired to Brelyna why Talvas, previously an apprentice, was now the de facto headman of the Telvanni, replacing a man named Neloth. Apparently the older Dunmer had become mentally unstable before disappearing without a trace, and had left no indication of what the town full of Dunmer mages should do in such a predicament. Talvas became the standing Arch Mage, for lack of another term, and according to Brelyna his role had thus far gone untested.

The ward around the town, Brelyna had explained to Frea, was raised by the mages after a series of attacks from fire-demon spawn, such as the ash monsters and what Frea had previously called burnt spirits. There had always been a small danger of attacks, but what was more like an invasion began the same day Neloth disappeared. The mages had no more trouble after the ward was raised.

 

Before we reached the top steps, the door to the mushroom house opened, and in front of us stood the woman named Varona. She looked me up and down, and said, “Talvas has been expecting you. Inside, please.” A moment later, she added, “Please remove your footwear.”

Padding across the spongy mushroom interior in cloth socks, and Frea in hide foot wrappings, we followed Varona up a flight of slightly squishy spiraling stairs.

Talvas was seated at a desk, around which were many shelves full of books, potions, bowls of ingredients, boxes, small chests, and what appeared to be random knick-knacks. In one area of the upper floor were dozens of wooden crates, and in another area an alchemy station and even more ingredients. Several round doorways led to what looked like storage caches, and a bedroom.

The center of the vacuous mushroom tower was curiously open and floorless, with a sort of guard rail circling around. I didn’t understand why there was such a huge waste of inner floor space. Perhaps it was an aesthetic thing.

The spiral staircase, carved into the side of the tower, continued up to a third level, and what may have been a fourth, or more. This mushroom was as tall as, at least, a five-story building, and that didn’t include the roof – the mushroom cap.

“Sit,” Talvas bade as we approached his desk. Varona, anticipating the need for two chairs, had already placed one behind Frea. She gracefully retrieved another for me.

“So,” the ostensive Telvanni leader began, “you know Brelyna Maryon?” His question was for me.

“Yes. We were students together at the College of Winterhold.”

“Hmph.” Talvas scratched his quill onto what looked like a ledger. “She wasted many years, there. She should have been here, truly mastering her skills.”

“She told me her parents wanted her to go to Winterhold.”

“Which was the first problem,” he asserted. He lowered his quill and gazed at me a moment. “The Telvanni have capabilities far beyond those of any other mage. And, here, we are protected from the beasts of the southern swamps. Here, the laws of Skyrim can’t hold us back. We make our own rules.”

I squirmed a bit in my seat and shared a look with Frea. My feet were cold, and a little bit damp.

“People talk,” Talvas continued, eyes on me. “I know why you have come, and my answer is no.”

Confused, I allowed myself a few extra moments to process his words. “I’m sorry, what?” I asked.

“This land has thrived without sunlight for two centuries. This new darkness that has fallen upon us has only strengthened our power. The ward protecting Tel Mithryn”—his arms were spread out wide—“provides all the light we need, and energy for the growth.”

The growth. He must have meant the mushrooms. “But what about other plants,” I said, “and the animals that eat plants? Life here has known ash for two hundred years, but not this, not total blackness. I see no gardens or farms – what will you eat when the plants die?”

The Dunmer chuckled and waved me towards him. “Come with me.”

Talvas led us back down his staircase, lower and lower, deeper than the level of the huge outer steps. On what must have been the ground level was an indoor garden as wide as the mushroom tower’s cap. I recognized the leaves of potatoes and carrots and the local yams, and saw growing cabbages and pumpkins and what looked like grape vines, along with many other plants I couldn’t name. Orbs of light – blue-purple as all magic from Oblivion was – hovered calmly above the plants at spaced intervals. At second glance, the orbs were actually moving. They were orbiting the center of the mushroom tower.

“Do all your mushrooms have gardens?” I asked.

“Many of them, yes,” Talvas answered with a haughty tone. “We haven’t relied on other cities’ wares for decades. So, you can understand, Dragonborn, why I will not risk the lives of my people for a fight that does not concern them.” The mage motioned toward the stairs, and Frea led us back up without protest.

At the front door, Varona was waiting for us by our boots. Frea diligently slipped hers on.

Frustrated, angry, and in a bit of shock, I stared at the door a moment before turning to Talvas. “You don’t control them,” I muttered.

Talvas’s chest shook in a breathy chuckle. “Pardon?”

“If the people here want to help,” I said, turning to him, “want to come with me, they can.”

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” whispered Frea.

“I know my people,” said Talvas. “They will not be interested.”

“Brelyna will,” I assumed, nearly growling the words.

Talvas waved his hand, dismissing my response. “Brelyna understands the weight of her decisions.”

“What in Oblivion does _that_ mean!?” I hadn’t planned on screeching at the Telvanni leader, but it happened, and I was for whatever reason unable to calm myself.

Varona opened the large, round, wooden front door. She stood silent, looking down her nose at us.

“I will expect you to be gone by morning tomorrow,” Talvas said while indicating the door with a flick of his wrist.

Huffing, I glared at the two elves before grabbing my new boots and storming out the door. But before I crossed the threshold, I turned back, raised a pointed finger at Talvas, boots in hand, and said, “You.”

“Me?”

“You’re a selfish ass. All I want to do is bring back the sun, to make sure people in this world do not starve. To do that I need people who can fight vampires. Lots of them. The Telvanni could easily help. Easily _win._ But no. All you care about is Tel Mithryn. Who cares if the Dunmer in Morrowind starve, if the Dunmer in Skyrim starve or are used as cattle for vampires, or if those in Raven Rock will also die without food. If you do not care for the humans and others, at least know that people who share your blood are suffering.”

I didn’t wait for a response.

. . . . . .

After relating to Brelyna what transpired during my short-lived meeting, my mage friend shrugged off the news.

“Don’t worry, Deb,” she said. “I’ll see if I can convince Talvas and others to go to Winterhold with you.”

“But you were right, Brey. He doesn’t respect you, or any Winterhold mage, it seems.”

“I’m still Dunmer. And Telvanni. _That_ he respects.”

“Does he? He doesn’t care that other Dunmer outside of Tel Mithryn suffer.”

I still didn’t know if there was a term in Norren for ‘racist’, but it seemed like Talvas was exactly that. To the extreme. His comment about swamp beasts was a clear derogatory remark about Argonians. And I resembled a Nord. That was, apparently, a problem. But more than that, anyone not of House Telvanni was seemingly unworthy of life.

“He showed me the garden, Brey,” I continued. “All those fruits and vegetables, growing inside. Savos had a similar garden, but just herbs, and he used Magelight. Talvas is right. The people here don’t need the sun. Is he correct? Is your magic stronger, now?”

Brelyna frowned, sighed, and then answered with a nod. “Yes. Yes, my magic is stronger. And I have more magical energy, it seems. But I’m not an idiot, I know what the lack of sun can do to the land, especially to other people. I’m not about to sit on my butt and watch the world outside of this place starve.”

“That’s my girl,” I heard Jenassa utter from another room.

. . . . . .

That afternoon, with nothing better to do with my day, Frea urged me to try on Miraak’s mask. She retrieved the object from her room and laid it before our hosts on their dining table. Frea, Brelyna, and I stared in silence at the golden visage for a few minutes.

“I saw Deborah in this mask,” Frea later said as she passed the table, heading for a chair. The shaman reclined, and then sipped from a cup of steaming tea, a mix made by Brelyna.

I dismissed Frea’s claim once again. “It does not look like me. It’s just a mask.”

“It’s enchanted,” Brelyna noted, confirming what I had suspected.

“My worry,” I said to the women, excluding Jenassa who was elsewhere working the hide of the boar she had hunted, “is that this mask is calling to me. I _want_ to put it on my face. Meridia is in my head, giving me ideas. I don’t know what wearing the mask will do.”

“Meridia is in your head?” Brelyna asked.

“Yeah, it’s….” I waved off the question. “It’s complicated. I’m her Champion. We’re… connected, a lot more than before, after the sky went dark.”

“Meridia is your god?” asked Frea, completely serious.

“God? No! It’s—” I sighed, and decided to accept the easier explanation. “Yes. Yes. Meridia is my god.” I paused a moment, then added, “One of them, anyway.”

“Then you must put on this mask,” Frea repeated. “Here. Now.”

“I agree,” said my mage friend. “Just try it. I don’t think anything bad will happen.”

“Says the woman who turned me into a horse,” I grumbled.

At that, Frea made an inquisitive sound and looked up from her cup, mid-sip. Neither I or a shamefaced Brelyna elaborated for the woman.

I turned to the mask, and gazed at it for a moment. “Fine,” I relented. “I will try it on. If I don’t, I fear Meridia will give me a pounding headache until I do. Or send lightning to scare me. But first....”

I looked to my left hand, slipped off the golden ring that held on tight to my thumb, and stared at the inner inscription – _YRSA BJORN_. Yrsa Bear.

Turning to Brelyna, I said, “This was Yrsarald’s. It—if anything happens to me….” I took Brelyna’s hand, pressed the ring into her palm, and told her, “I have a son, Brey. Yrsa’s son. If anything happens to me, this needs to go to him. Promise me.”

Brelyna’s huge blood-red eyes blinked, stunned. Apparently Stenvar never told her. Perhaps Stenvar had never known, though as Marcurio, Bird, and Altanir had all known I was with child before I knew, they could have told Stenvar. But maybe they didn’t.

“A son?” she repeated. “I’m—wow. Alright. I don’t think anything will happen, but of course, I’ll do that for you. Is he in Riften?”

“In The Rift, at Fort Dawnguard.”

“Fort what? Dawn Guard?”

I nodded. “They are vampire hunters. It’s east of Riften, their fort. It’s difficult to find, though. Look for a man named Altanir Stonefield in Raven Rock or Skyrim. If—if he’s still….” A rush of air exited my lungs as an invisible fist collided with my diaphragm. Altanir might be dead. Neriwen might be dead. Thrynn and Serana might be dead. I shook the thought away and turned back to Brelyna. My eyes focused on my friend’s. I wanted to thank her. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to hold her in my arms and tell her how much I’d missed her, and how beyond relieved I was to see her. But all I could manage was, “Thanks, Brey.”

The mage nodded and smiled, then tucked the ring into her robe pocket. “Alright. Come on. Put that mask on now and then we can move on with our day.”

“Wait,” called Frea. She put down her cup onto a side table and walked toward the front door where her axe was propped up against the mushroom interior wall. “Alright,” she said after adopting a defensive stance, “I am ready.” Her entire body was then covered in a sparkling turquoise sheen, an effect similar to that of Stoneflesh.

I smiled, and turned to the table.

The mask was cool to the touch, and heavy. Solid metal. Though barely detectable, shallow vibrations tickled my fingertips. How such a thing would be able to stay on my face without a strap was a mystery. But I needed to know what was so important about this mask, and why Meridia, and perhaps other gods, wanted so badly for me to wear it.

Gripping the pointy protrusions in each hand, I lifted the mask slowly toward my head.

After a flare of white-hot electricity and with a violent push from an unseen force, the mask pressed itself firmly to my face, and sent me reeling backward.

“ _Oh, wow!_ ” I hollered in English as a rush of energy flowed through every muscle, every nerve.

Brelyna shrieked my name, and scrambled toward me. She pulled on the mask, but it would not budge.

Frea, too, was then at my side, futilely struggling with the mask. Krikit yelped repeatedly, obviously concerned.

“Stop! Stop!” I cried, pushing them away. “I’m alright!”

As my body succumbed to the systemic vibrations, I keeled forward and slowly dropped to my knees, and then to all fours. Orgasmic waves of energy became an all-consuming sensation, infinitely more intense than that time Kyne had sent me her blessing.

Every muscle in my body clenched and released as my fingernails clawed into the mushroom’s floor. The vibrations were not stopping, and my guttural moans were involuntary.

I opened my eyes. Through the mask I saw the world behind a crystal blue haze, all edges sharpened like a television screen that needed its picture adjusted. Before me walked Frea, ice-leather armor sparkling. Her axe had crisp white, glowing edges that shifted frequently. I felt as though I could anticipate its movement.

The outlines of two more people moved in front of me. Jenassa had joined Brelyna, crossbow in her one hand.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the ongoing pleasure. It was simply too much. I needed out.

As I opened my mouth to ask for help, for my friends to again try to get this fucking mask off of my face, the vibrations began to subside, and my muscles regained some strength. I shifted my weight to my left arm, and with my right hand, grasped the mask and pulled.

It came off without a fight, weighing like a sack of bricks. I let it fall to the floor, and I remained there on my knees, panting. When I looked up to the three women before me, they were all stunned, two of them glowing turquoise with protective magic. Krikit was standing behind Frea, tail low and still, ears flat.

At my fingertips I felt a tingling, as if digital circulation had been deprived and nerves were reawakening. I looked to my hand and watched as delicate tendrils of lightning magic danced across my palm and between my fingers. Curious and encouraged, I cast a weak lightning bolt at the floor of the mushroom house. White light streaked forward and disappeared into the floor, leaving behind a singed patch of spongey fungus.

I looked up again and stared wide-eyed at the women.

A moment later, Jenassa began to chuckle, and then fell into a fit of unbridled laughter.

As Brelyna did her best to hush Jenassa, I stared at my electrified right hand.

The mask. Whatever enchantment the mask held not only regenerated magical energy, it did it _fast_. I felt as full as I had during my stay at the Winterhold college, not taxed by vampires or curses. Not even potions performed as well as the mask had. A sip of potion could refill my magic tank somewhat, but only for another spell or two. An entire bottle of a potion all at once is never recommended. I had been saving my two bottles, in my knapsack, for a time when I desperately needed them. Oh well.

Frea joined me where I knelt. She crouched down and picked up the mask that Meridia compelled me towards, for what was now an obvious reason.

Magic. _Magic._ I had my magic back.

I thought about Altanir, Serana, Neriwen, and Thrynn, imagined myself finding them, and cast the Clear-Seeing spell. A whoosh of dense ghostly blue fog snaked around me and Frea, and through doorways. I scrambled to my feet, wobbled a bit, but then trotted along the path the fog had taken. I cast the magic again, and was led to the front door. Once the door was open, I could see where the fog was traveling.

“Brey?” I called.

The woman ran up to me. “Yes? What is it? What are you tracking?”

“The people I was traveling with, from Skyrim.”

I cast the spell again, and the magic meandered down the carved steps, around another mushroom house, and onward. Because of the ward, I couldn’t see in which direction the fog had led, and so I followed the trail to the edge of the glowing wall. With the next cast, I could then see the trail it took, and hoped Brelyna could, too.

“What direction is this?” I asked her.

“Um, well….”

“Northwest,” said Jenassa as she approached us. The angry elf eyed me with her dark purple-red, murderous eyes. “The magic is pointing toward Raven Rock.”

Raven Rock. My heart leapt. And then, I recalled this spell didn’t just point one towards live people – it could also indicate the location of objects, and corpses.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter for a while, as I have been fighting writer’s block, and I will be traveling. The next chapters are sort of difficult to write for reasons, but we’re still in the second story arc. I think there will be two more chapters of Solstheim antics before we go back to the mainland.


	20. Chapter 20

Frea and I, as desired by Talvas, left mushroom town before dawn. Varona, Talvas’s steward, opened the wards to let us pass. Brelyna and Jenassa stayed behind, planning to do their best to convince Talvas or the other Telvanni to join us in Winterhold. Perhaps we did not need all the Telvanni – we just needed some.

Instead of heading directly west-northwest, across the river and towards Raven Rock, Frea convinced me to travel half a day’s walk north to this Sun Stone she spoke of, where the remnants of the Skaal had made camp.

Before we cleared the outskirts of Tel Mithryn, I spotted a peculiar object to the west, at the river. It was as large as a minivan, and it was moving. It had legs. I stopped in my tracks, and stared. Krikit stood quiet for a change, and did not leave my side.

“What is that?” I asked Frea, attempting to hide my alarm with simple curiosity.

The woman stood at my side, and answered. But the word she used to describe the creature made no sense to me. I stared at her, eyes wide with puzzlement, and the woman tried again.

“In your words, they are _klaklifen_.”

Again, I stared at Frea, expressionless. She laughed and gestured toward the large boulder-like thing to the west. “ _Klaklife_ ,” she said, dropping the plural ‘n’ but retaining the suffix sound that indicated action. “I suppose they do not live in Skyrim. But you traveled in Morrowind, yes? You did not see any?”

“No,” I said, turning back toward the creature. “No, I would remember something so big.” At that, I started toward the thing, which appeared to be near but removed from the cliffside on which we walked. “Is it dangerous?”

“No. This one is old. She is no longer used for travel.”

“T-travel?” I stopped my approach. “What do you mean?”

Frea gave a small smile. “Come.”

The closer we came to the rocky cliff’s edge, the clearer I saw what I was actually looking at. This _klaklife_ was basically a cockroach with legs as long as a giraffe was tall, with a sort of canopy attached to or embedded in its dorsal exoskeleton. Under the canopy was what looked like a good place to sit or stand, but no seats were within the depression. Though the creature was stationary, its two forelimbs – one pair of four – moved slowly from the water to its mouth. It was feeding on something from the river.

“It is a giant bug,” I muttered.

Frea chuckled. “Yes, I think the same. The creatures from Morrowind are different from those that were born of this land. I have seen none other of her kind here.”

“So, the Telvanni – or Dunmer? – use it for travel? Like a horse?”

“Horse?” Frea repeated before taking a moment to consider the word. “Yes, yes I think they are used in the same manner. The _klaklifen_ are slow, but take long _klifen_.”

I nodded, mostly understanding, and turned back from the cliff’s edge. Krikit sat on the well-trodden footpath, waiting patiently.

As we descended the northern slope of the cliff, Frea said, “You have some trouble with words, as I do.”

I felt heat rush to my ears. “Yes,” was my answer.

The shaman did not pry further, and I did not elaborate.

 

Giant mushrooms and normal evergreens dotted the ash-dusted landscape, and I began to feel a chill as we climbed a steady slope. The Sun Stone was visible at about midday, and from a distance I saw the tents and people around it. One large fire and several smaller ones lit the entire camp, and I counted much more than seventeen people.

I nudged Frea’s arm. “There are many people there.”

“Yes. Some are not Skaal.”

As we approached, I noted that some campers were Dunmer, while the others were light-skinned humans. All of them appeared to be wearing mostly hide clothing, though I spotted hints of steel here and there. When we approached the first small campfire, several humans rose to their feet. Slowly, the rest joined them, and soon all campers were staring silently at Frea, and perhaps at me. Krikit remained a silent shadow.

Scattered around the camp was what appeared to be piles of broken mudbricks, and encircling the standing stone was a circular depression. Near the campfires were piles of shaped logs that had been broken, as if repurposed from a fence for use as firewood.

The shaman kept walking and did not stop until she reached the edge of the large fire, behind which was the roughly obelisk-shaped standing stone I had seen from a distance. The firelight made the engraved motifs of suns and other swirling designs dance across the surface.

Frea turned to the onlooking crowd, raised her hand high, palm out, and then lowered it.

“Skaal, and Skaal-friends,” she began, “I have returned with the _Dovahkiin_ , the Light-Bringer.” Frea leaned into me and whispered into my ear, “Touch your sword.”

I turned to her, confused.

“Touch the sword,” she said. “I have seen what happens when you do.”

Not really caring to question the request of my new shaman friend, I did as she instructed. My fingers wrapped around the hilt of Dawnbreaker, and the central gem emitted its brilliant white light. I should have expected the crowd’s reaction, but I didn’t, and their collective gasp startled me. I raised the sword halfway out of the sheath, but then lowered it and released it from my grasp.

A tug on my trousers won my attention. I looked down into the wide, dark eyes of a young Dunmer who cracked a smile, revealing the assortment of teeth and tooth gaps a child of about five or so years would have. In a language entirely new to me, the child turned away and shouted something, then ran away in the direction in which he shouted.

A tiny human with curly blonde hair, perhaps two or three years old, pushed on my sword’s sheath and let it wobble back and forth a bit before grabbing it again and giggling. Krikit, perhaps sensing a disturbance, gently headbutted the child away and proceeded to lean his body against my leg and the sheath. He gazed up at me with bright eyes and an open, smiling mouth, panting and knowing he did a good job at protecting my thigh from a tiny human. The child did not seem to mind the intrusion and giggled again, and hugged Krikit’s neck and stood that way for some time.

“They have been expecting you,” Frea said.

Laughing, I turned to her. “Yeah, I guessed that.”

A taller child, a girl of about twelve with chestnut hair, was less enthused to see me. A woman about my age with short dark hair and light eyes stepped up behind the girl, likely her daughter. She appeared rather angry.

“And where were you when my Oslaf died?” the woman asked me rather loudly. “Why have you come now, now of all times? It is too late. You are too late, _Dovahkiin_.” At that, the woman and her daughter turned and walked away, toward a smaller campfire.

The small blonde child had by then let go of Krikit and proceeded to grasp my hand. Turning to Frea, I asked, “Did she lose someone to Torug?”

“Yes, Deborah. All of the Skaal lost someone to Torug, or to Miraak. Finna lost her man, Oslaf. The girl is Aeta, their only child.” The shaman gave my shoulder a squeeze, and then crouched down to greet the child who was still attached to me. I heard Frea speak quietly in a language I did not understand. The sounds were similar to Norren, and I thought I heard the word for “remember”.

The small head of curls swayed from side to side. Frea mussed the child’s hair and stood. The child turned to awkwardly pet Krikit, and then trotted away.

By then, most of the campers had returned to their varied activities. Cooking, sewing, hide-working, and knife-sharpening, all the while the many youngsters played with each other. All except for the older girl, the daughter who lost a father named Oslaf. The girl had returned with her mother to a fire where food was being prepared.

“Who are the others here?” I asked Frea. “The Dunmer.”

She took a look around the camp before answering. “I do not know. Outlaws, most likely. But there is safety in numbers. They must have found our camp while I traveled, and were permitted to stay.”

Frea turned to the standing stone, leaned forward, and pressed her forehead to the surface. She then stood back and gazed at its precipice. Where she had touched, the stone visibly glowed orange, briefly.

The shaman cleared her throat and turned to me. “I think you should pray to the All-Maker, here. Pray to the Sun Stone.”

“Why? What will that do?”

The shaman shrugged. “Possibly nothing. Or perhaps the All-Maker will send you a vision, or a blessing. You will not know until you try.” She motioned toward the stone, and stepped to the side.

The etchings on the standing stone reminded me of similar stones in Skyrim, just outside of Riverwood. Ralof had urged me to touch the Mage Stone and ask for the blessing of the gods. The feeling I had received was similar to touching shrines and other such objects. Perhaps this stone would be no different. I figured, at the very worst, nothing would happen.

Palms poised to lay upon the stone, I looked to Frea. “What do I need to do?”

“Touch the stone,” she said, “and speak with your mind. The thoughts will come.”

Looking up, I eyed one of the sun motifs, and laid my palms flat on the surface, fingers spread. The stone was ice cold, and not enchanted with any magic that I could sense.

_Hello, All-Maker._ _I’m Deborah. I’m a Dragonborn. And… I am touching your Sun Stone. I hope you don’t mind._ A few seconds later, I thought, _Please don’t smite me_.

When nothing happened, I continued with my thoughts. _So, I need help. You might have noticed that the world is cold without the sun, and that magic is weak. Well, my magic is weak. Aetherial magic. Are you an Aedra? Or are you something that created the Aedra and Daedra? Um, anyway…. I, uh, figured I’d come with Frea here, to meet her people and see the—you. Frea told me to pray, so, I’m… praying. Kind of. I guess._

_I need your help. Or, rather I need the sun. The world needs the sun, and we need a lot of help to clear the sky. There was a curse brought on by an ancient bow and a vampire—two vampires, actually, one who killed the other. Sort of killed. I have no idea if we can even find this bow, but first I need to get to Torug, and to get to Torug I need to kill his vampire army. And to kill a vampire army I need power, or numbers. So, if you can somehow figure out how to give me more power, or more people, then, I guess, that’s all I can ask for. Alright? Alright._ I looked to Frea, and then back at the stone. _Thanks_ , I added.

With that, I gently bounced my palms against the stone before backing away. As I did so, the motifs lit up orange-gold, and a flare of what could only be described as sunlight burst forth in all directions. I flinched and shielded my eyes from the vibrant assault, and felt the short-lived warmth that the light dissipated.

A hush came over the camp as everyone dropped their conversations in favor of watching the outsider pray to and get assaulted by their god. Or, not a god, as Frea had explained. Their Creator. _The_ God.

When the light from the motifs dimmed and disappeared, I felt no pain, no strength, no pleasure, no difference. I looked to Frea, questioning. “What was that? I felt nothing but some heat.”

Frea offered a warm smile as her hand grasped mine. “The All-Maker greets you, Skaal-friend. Come,” she said as she gestured to her side, “we will eat, and rest.”

We walked around the large campfire and toward another, smaller one, all the while my hand in Frea’s. I thought the manual leading rather unnecessary, but did not pull away. Krikit trotted ahead, perhaps guessing our destination.

“What did you mean,” I asked Frea, “when you called me the Light-Bringer?”

“Is it not obvious?” she answered without turning back. “You will return the sun to the lands. And your sword, it is not of mortal make – the light of your god shines from it. This god, Meridia, I do not know them. You will have to teach me.”

We arrived at a campfire around which several Skaal sat, including the small girl with blonde curls. Krikit poked the girl with his snout. The girl turned, and Krikit licked her entire face, eliciting delighted laughter from the child.

Frea chuckled and let go of my hand. She reached for a hunk of charred meat that sat on a flat stone by the fire. She handed me the meat, plopped herself down behind the flat stone, and then reached for a second, bigger hunk and bit into it.

“And you think this Meridia,” she said between chews, “wanted you to wear Miraak’s mask?” She took a moment to swallow. “This is strange, and interesting. You know, Miraak was sworn to the Herma-Mora, and the mask, it looked like one of the Herma-Mora’s beings. I think,” she said before taking another bite, “that your Meridia claimed the mask. The Herma-Mora no longer holds power over it. This is good. Though, I do not know your Meridia.”

I waited for Frea to continue talking, but instead she took a sizable bite of the freshly cooked meat and looked to me, expectant.

While deciding exactly what to tell Frea, and how to explain that Meridia was not the same as the Daedra or Aedra, I bit into the stringy, gamey meat. It was delicious, and I let out a little moan to voice this fact.

Looking to the side of Frea, I watched as the young girl fed Krikit what looked like scraps. The dog barked lightly several times before devouring the offering.

“Meridia,” I began, “is not like Hermaeus Mora or the other Daedra. She isn’t an Aedra, a god, either. She’s older, something like a goddess of light that came before the sun was created. Her sisters and brothers are the stars – or, created the stars when they left this place, to go back to Aetherius. Her father is the sun. But Meridia stayed when the others left. She likes this place, and wants to keep it safe. So, she chose me, chose me to be her Champion, to fight zombies and vampires. All undead. She hates them. I… used to fear them.”

I took another bite, and decided to avoid bringing up the whole Earth thing. “When the sky went dark,” I continued, “Meridia… I think she possesses me now. In a small way. I am still me. I am _all_ me. But, she does make me want to do things. When the sky went dark, I was not well. She… took hold of my body, controlled me. But I am better now. Now, Meridia just tells me to kill vampires. Or wear masks.”

“She has been good, then?” Frea asked.

I nodded while chewing. “One of my companions, who I was traveling with, he worries for me. Says he wants to watch me, doesn’t trust Meridia. But she hasn’t done anything yet to make me not trust her.”

Thinking of Altanir, I cast the Clear-Seeing spell, and the blue fog shimmied forward, startling several Dunmer as it blasted through their bodies.

“Is this still west? North-west?” I asked Frea.

The shaman took a look around the camp and then nodded before finishing her meat and licking her fingers clean.

“I worry they were killed when the boat was destroyed,” I muttered, staring at my dinner. “What if the magic is pointing me to their bodies?”

I looked to Frea to find her still licking her left hand. “It is possible,” she said when she finished lapping up the remaining meat juice. She then pressed her hands into the ashy dirt, front then back, and then smoothed them up and down her trousers. “No one can know until we travel to where your magic is leading you.”

After dusting off her hands, Frea handed me a hunk of roasted yam, and smiled.

 

I did not meet all seventeen of Frea’s Skaal relatives, but most of those I did meet were friendly. The toddler with blonde curls was Frea’s niece, whose parents were no longer living. Most of the time the Skaal spoke in their native tongue, though occasionally I was asked questions in broken Norren. Thankfully, most people seemed more excited to have their shaman returned to them than to be in the presence of an outsider. I wasn’t sure I was ready for undue admiration for being some sort of awaited hero. Though, perhaps, I wasn’t being treated as a hero because I wasn’t one, yet. To some, it was clear, I had actually failed them.

Most of the evening I sat, listened, and observed. From what I understood, the Skaal were typical hunter-gatherers who settled in villages and camps in turn with the seasons. As most of the surviving Skaal were teenagers or younger, they found it necessary to group with, at least temporarily, a small band of Dunmer who were apparently nomadic as well. I wondered if the Dunmer were outlaws, or simply people who preferred to live a mobile lifestyle. But the elves at the camp kept to themselves for the most part, and aside from the young one who had tugged at my trousers, none of them interacted with me.

. . . . . .

On the second night on the road, Krikit began to bark, the same sound he made when the ash monsters attacked. I stood at the ready, Dawnbreaker in hand and a ward cast in front of myself and Frea. The shaman gave me a similar look that Ingjard used to when I offered to protect her rather than the other way around. Nevertheless, Frea cast her spell similar to Stoneflesh, but stayed behind my ward.

I whispered the Shout that showed me life. A moment later I felt, but did not see, the presence of five elves. Five hostile elves. Four men, one woman.

“There are five angry elves near, somewhere,” I told Frea. “But, far enough that my magic does not show their bodies.”

“The dog will bring them to us, I fear.”

“Or send them away,” I said with desperate hope. Frea’s eyes showed her doubt.

“We will go west as before,” she said. “If we are to be attacked, they have lost the benefit of surprise.”

I nodded, dropped my ward and cast Stoneflesh instead, and we proceeded forward. I called Krikit to me and gave him a rub, attempting to calm him. He ceased barking for several minutes before starting again.

“ _Laas yah nir!_ ”

The Shout was simply a harsh whisper, but it startled Frea. She jumped slightly and eyed me, but then half-smiled and relaxed. “What do you see?” she asked.

I waited a moment and looked all around us. Krikit walked to our left and continued his barking. I looked south, but saw only a short hill.

“Krikit!” I called. “Come!” The dog looked back briefly but then continued his barking before climbing the hill and disappearing over it. “ _Goddamn it_ ,” I hissed, and followed him.

Standing on the hill, I again whispered the Shout, and finally saw a clump of glowing red in the distance to the south. Krikit’s barks began to alternate with growls. This was not good.

“Do we wait, or do we continue west?” I asked Frea.

“We should continue,” she said before looping two fingers into her mouth and releasing a sharp whistle. Krikit stopped barking to look back at the shaman, and then bounded toward us.

“Good boy, Krikit,” I said. “Come on.”

As we walked, Frea and I watched the group of people south. When the group appeared to pivot northwest, we knew they were following us.

“They come,” Frea noted.

“Why? Why are they coming after us?”

“There are some who walk this land,” the shaman answered with audible disdain, “human, elf, orc, who take what is not theirs.” Frea spat at the ground, cast again her sparkling turquoise magical armor spell, and readied her axe in her right hand. “They see us from a distance now, but soon they will see that we carry nothing of value.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Frea turned to me, slowly shook her head, and turned back to the south, to the oncoming elves. “Put on your mask, _Dovahkiin._ If any escape, they will not know your face. They will not come for you, after.”

“And what about you?”

“Many already know my face.”

The palpable hatred and familiarity Frea had for these potential marauders worried me, but I didn’t have time to consider the reasoning behind her reaction. Krikit’s alarming barks and growls continued as I reached into my new knapsack and pulled out the mask. I worried that putting the thing on my face again would send me to my knees, but I still felt energized from the last time. Perhaps I would be fine.

When the cool metal pressed against my cheeks and forehead, I felt no such rush. I did, however, again see the world through a crisp blue haze. The scene to the south changed from an ill-defined blob to five individual figures. I studied the outlines of each elf and thought I could distinguish individual weapons. Two elves carried what looked like crossbows, two carried swords, and one carried a staff. I iterated as much to Frea.

“You see that?” she asked.

I nodded. “It’s the mask. It changes my sight.”

The figures drew nearer, and I thought I could hear them shouting, or making some sort of noise.

Krikit’s barks began to hurt my ears and I attempted to shoo him away for my sanity and his safety. But the dog wouldn’t listen.

“Frea! Tell Krikit to go!”

The woman turned to me. “How? You are the one he follows!”

Aggravated, I growled before stomping over to Krikit. I cried out his name and got his attention. “Go!” I yelled, waving my arm to the west. “Go, Krikit!” I wanted to avoid threatening to harm the poor pup, but the mob was encroaching. The dog turned from me again to bark southward, and I gave up. If Krikit wanted to stay and fight, I couldn’t stop him. But he wasn’t a terribly big dog, and I worried he would be easily kicked around, or worse.

“There’s the one!” I heard one of the elves shout from a distance. I figured he was talking about Frea, and wondered what sort of trouble she had made with these men. “That’s her – the one with the sword!”

Sword? Sword! He was referring to me, and not Frea who held an axe.

These elves were not from the Skaal camp. People there would never have been able to walk south-southwest, and then north again, and still meet up with us. No. These were different elves.

“They know you!?” Frea asked harshly.

The memory of a bald Dunmer teasing me with mead came flooding back. The elves from the broken-down house! How in the hell did they find me? Certainly this was pure accident that I was crossing paths with them again. They must have been traveling north for whatever reason. Just my luck.

Unless, of course, the suspected mage with a staff also knew the tracking spell that I used.

There had been six of them before, but I knew these were the same people.

“I needed water,” I summarized for Frea. “I couldn’t pay.”

Feelings of the elves’ hostility thickened and bit at my nerves. My brain was screaming to run as I had before, to use Shouts to get away. But two of those elves had crossbows and one might have been a mage. Running was not an option this time.

I breathed in deep. Again. Again.

“Be ready,” I said to Frea before stepping in front of her.

With a final deep breath, I made the first move against the elves.

“ _Tiid klo ul!_ ” Time slowed around me and Frea.

“ _Fus ro dah!”_ Three syllables rumbled the earth around me and blasted a wall of force against the elves. I watched as they flew in slow-motion backward, hit by an invisible truck. The mage collided with a boulder. Another’s sword went flying.

“ _Zun haal viik!”_ Weapons still held by the elves were knocked from their grip.

“ _Wuld!”_ I flew forward, landing at the feet of one of the disarmed archers.

Time was still moving faster for me than the Dunmer. I watched as expressions of bewilderment and fear slowly settled on the archer’s face. I wondered, as I peered down at him, if I should kill him before questioning him. The slowed time would not last much longer.

As I deliberated, Frea made a terrifying cry. I watched as the warrior-shaman stormed forward and buried her axe into the chest of the nearest elf. And then another. Then the injured mage. As I hesitated, Frea exacted whatever wrath she held within her for these people, or similar people.

Seconds later, the archer I stood by, still on his back, was the only one of the five left alive. I stepped away, knowing that his time would soon meet up with mine. He was deprived of his crossbow, anyhow. If he reached for another weapon upon realizing what had happened, he wouldn’t live long.

“Why do you not kill him!?” Frea rasped.

“Don’t you want to question him?” I asked. “These men had no reason to attack us. I did nothing to them before but take one sip of mead!” I left out the possibility that I had scared the crap out of them by using Shouts to flee. “I want to know why they came after me. There was no reason!”

“They do not need a reason, Deborah! These men, they take, they do not ask. You were lucky to live, before.”

The man’s movements reached normal speeds. As his expression began to convey realization, Frea stomped her foot onto his chest sending him back to the ground and swung her axe at his throat, partially decapitating him.

I gasped and scrambled backward several steps. My heart hammered in my chest. I felt the warmth of blood on my face and hands. I wiped my hands against my trousers, but they were also splattered with blood.

Grumbling, I said to Frea, “Next time you want to do that, please warn me, so I can avoid being covered in blood. I hate being covered in blood.”

Frea chuckled – an odd reaction, in my mind, for someone who had just slaughtered five people. She dipped the blade of her axe into the ash and then dragged it against the leather armor of the archer several times.

“Sometimes, _Dovahkiin_ , you must kill or be killed. If you want to survive, I think you will need to learn this.”

Her words took a moment to sink in, and once they did, my gut wrenched. _Kill or be killed_. I had already learned that lesson at Windhelm. Perhaps, what happened with Yrsarald was exactly why I hesitated to kill the elves, choosing instead to disable them first. But perhaps she was right. If I wanted to win upcoming battles against Torug and his vampires, I would have to be merciless. I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath, and opened my eyes as I slowly exhaled.

As Frea searched the fallen bodies for useful items, I searched for Krikit.

” _Laas_.” A moment later I spotted a red speck some distance away. My senses told me it was a dog. I removed the mask and placed it in my knapsack. I had forgotten then thing was still on my face. Somehow, the mask failed to fall off after I used Shouts. Perhaps the magical words held no material substance until they materialized magic outside of my body.

A few moments later, I found a terrified, cowering silver dog, ears flat and tail tucked. The poor beast couldn’t look me in the eye. When I approached, he whimpered, but made no movement or sound suggesting he would attack me.

“It’s alright, Krikit,” I murmured. “It’s just me. You’re fine, see?”

Crouching down, I saw no blood around him, so I figured the only thing wounded was his trust in me, the human who turned out to be a scary monster. Though he had witnessed me Shouting before, this event was evidently more traumatizing for the pup.

“I’m sorry,” I continued. “I told you to go, you know.”

“Is he alright?” Frea asked, peering over me.

“Yeah, just scared.”

Recalling another Shout I had learned during my time at High Hrothgar, I breathed in and let out a calm “ _Kaan drem ov_.” After a few moments, Krikit’s breathing slowed and his ears perked up. And then the dog was on all fours and straining up to lick my chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaklife – Silt Strider
> 
> Shouts  
> Aura Whisper: Laas Yah Nir  
> Unrelenting Force: Fus Ro Dah  
> Disarm: Zun Haal Viik  
> Whirlwind Sprint: Wuld Nah Kest  
> Slow Time: Tiid Klo Ul  
> Kyne's Peace: Kaan Drem Ov


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: NSFW.
> 
> This is the last chapter I currently have written. I've started Chapter 22, and everything is plotted out and ready in my head, but it's going to be a while before something new is posted, I think. I'm moving (temporarily, again) to Chile later this month, so I'm a bit taxed emotionally and really should be working more as well as getting ready to move. Anyway, enjoy.

Nearing sunset on the final day before we reached Raven Rock, Frea took me on a short detour north. The climate seemed to shift abruptly colder as we hiked to somewhat higher altitudes. The landscape changed, too, replacing sand with grass, and burnt and dying trees with healthy evergreens.

Frea refused to tell me where we were going, but promised that the detour would not delay our arrival to the city, and that I would enjoy what the destination offered. Curious, I followed without protest.

Eventually we traveled far enough to encounter snow. Krikit was delighted, and frolicked before leaping into a sizable snowbank. The dog then bounded forward before shaking his coat clean. Frea laughed at his antics, and Krikit snorted before prancing up to the shaman, smiling his doggy smile.

“He missed the snow,” she said. “The ash and sand is at times too warm for his feet.”

“It still surprises me that you can know the mind of a dog.” Krikit barked at me and wagged his tail floof before running away from us, towards deeper snow. “Does he say anything about me? About why he stays with me?”

Frea was silent for a moment, and then said, “He does not. But you are his, now, and he is yours. He is young. Perhaps he misses his mother.”

Mother. _Mother_. Just what I needed – another son. Though, Krikit had thus far taken more care of me than I had of him. Thoughts of Virald and Ash bombarded my brain, and I was lost to Frea’s ramblings until she stopped walking.

“What is it?” I asked as I walked to her side. We were standing upon a short ridge overlooking a small valley within which dense mist created a low-laying cloud.

Frea turned to me, all smiles. “It is the hot baths,” she said before trotting down the hill. “You can clean yourself of ash and blood!”

 

Hot springs. The pools were vast and many, and there was only a slight stink of sulfur. Frea was naked and in the water long before I even reached the bottom of the valley. She had lit up the space with several small orbs of warm light. Remembering I could now do the same, I sent a basketball-sized orb of Magelight to hover above Frea. The magic held fast.

Finally disrobed, with my toes I tested the water of the pool Frea had chosen. The temperature was perfect. I immediately scrubbed my rankest bits first, followed by my face.

From across the steaming water I watched Frea stretch and flex. The tattoos on her left side swirled around her form in an appreciative manner. With her hand, perhaps kneading out a knot, she worked at her left shoulder just below a small tattoo of four parallel lines. She had a broad upper body, and from her straining and light grunting it seemed she could not quite reach the spot that needed massage. She cast a small amount of healing magic at the sore spot before trying to self-massage again.

The pool was not terribly deep in the center, enough to stand and half-swim. I made my way slowly toward Frea, walking with the aid of a lazy breaststroke.

“Are you sore?” I asked. “I can help, if you want.”

Frea stopped her struggling and half turned to side-eye me. “Alright,” she consented. “Thank you.”

I chuckled as I neared. “Don’t thank me yet. I didn’t say I was good at massage.”

The shaman managed a breathy, single laugh, and let her arms fall into the water.

Confronted with the nearness of Frea’s form, I hesitated. My eyes traveled from the tattoo near her sore spot to the midline of her muscular back, to the nape of her neck, and finally fixated on a curled tress that clung to her damp skin. As I reached out to sweep the hair aside, my breath quickened. The idea of touching Frea suddenly felt forbidden, like I had just realized she was some holy creature. I feared my fingers would be scorched if I dared touch a shaman of the Skaal.

The bombardment of nervousness flustered and confused me. Frea was just a woman, no longer a stranger, but a friend. There was no reason for apprehension.

The moment my fingertips made contact with her warm flesh, it wasn’t my fingers that burned. The sensation in my core was all-too familiar, one I had not felt since the early days of being romanced by Yrsarald. I stifled low, anxious laughter, which thankfully passed unnoticed by Frea.

I took a deep breath and began to lightly massaged the skin around the spot she had attempted to knead. With my thumb, I pressed near the four-parallel-lines tattoo.

“Is this the spot?” I asked, breathy and barely audible. I cleared my throat. “Is this the—”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “only somewhat to the left.”

I worked at Frea’s shoulder methodically, eventually adding more pressure. We were roughly the same height, so reach was not an issue.

“Here it is,” I said as my thumb rolled over the knot. “There is a lump in the muscle.”

Frea grunted. “I have had this pain for years. It aches always. Some days are worse than others.”

The longer I worked at Frea’s back, the more my right hand hurt. Initially, the warm mineral water of the hot spring made the hand feel better than it had in weeks. Apparently using it to work at someone else’s sore body was a mistake. I dropped my right hand back into the water, and continued to only use my left.

“I have a pain like that,” I told Frea. “My right hand. A man stepped on it while I held my sword. Broke some bones. It was healed well, after, but I feel deep pains sometimes, like now.”

Under the water, Frea’s right hand grasped mine. The light of healing magic pulled my attention from Frea’s back, and I watched the water glow as the dull ache in my fingers ceased. The relief from discomfort was so sudden that I bowed forward somewhat. Using Frea’s body, I stabilized myself. I laughed, and relaxed. My right hand remained in the clutches of Frea’s, and with the other I recommenced kneading Frea’s pesky muscle knot with knuckles and thumb.

Then Frea placed the palm of my right hand upon her hip and held it there. The massage I was giving paused as my brain caught up with what was happening. My breath quickened again. When Frea pulled gently on my arm and smoothed my palm across her abdomen, my body followed and I found myself flush against her, free hand clinging to her shoulder for balance. Frea held me to her, and slowly, my breathing calmed.

With my breasts pressed against Frea’s wet, warm back, a sense of comfort swept over me. The nerves and reservations I had previously felt with this woman were washed away by her backwards embrace. I rested my head on her shoulder, and she held me to her for a long, lazy moment.

“You remind me of her,” the shaman muttered.

“Hmm?” I lifted my head from her shoulder.

“My woman, Morwen.” Frea slowly moved my hand from her abdomen to her breast. The peak of her nipple grazed my pruned palm, and my breath shook.

“Morwen?” I managed to repeat.

“More than just the look of her,” Frea continued. “She was a warrior, belonging to two worlds – Skyrim, and the Skaal.”

Frea took in a deep breath and clamped her hand onto mine, knotting our fingers. The involuntary knead of her breast brought further ragged breaths, and I leaned into her, lips grazing her flesh. Feeling brazen, or perhaps simply curious, my free hand drifted down the slope of Frea’s shoulder and arm, landing on her hip.

“Torug,” she whispered, “at the Wind Stone. I found her—”

Frea buckled forward somewhat, and I caught her. “It’s alright,” I breathed in her ear despite knowing that nothing was alright. Her lover or wife was dead by Torug’s hand. I didn’t want to consider by what means. “It’s alright,” I whispered again, to myself as well as to her.

The shaman let go of my hand, quietly sobbed through some words in her language, and then gracefully turned to face me. She was crying, and her nose was slightly red. Curls flanked her face, and I reached up to brush them away one by one and watched droplets of water roll down her cheeks.

Now was not the right time to kiss this woman, but as we shared this moment, kissing her was all that I wanted to do. I recalled feeling the same when near Elodie in the past. The act felt wrong, both before and after her wife had died. Like Elodie had been, Frea was in mourning. In truth, so was I. No doubt everyone in Skyrim and Solstheim had lost someone they loved. Was there anyone that Torug had not hurt?

“I will find him,” I said quietly to Frea as I smoothed a hand down one of the two frizzy braids that held back her hair. “I will find my friends, I will gather warriors and mages, and I will hunt him down and kill him.”

Frea nodded as she straightened her back and stiffened her body. Her breasts breached the water’s surface, and I eyed one of the tattoos that decorated the space between them. Three parallel lines met a fourth at a crooked angle, and dots in meaningful places highlighted the design. I allowed my fingers to trace the short lines, and pressed my fingertips against three of the dots.

I wanted to ask Frea what her markings meant, ever curious about tattoos. But before I could inquire, the shaman leaned in and pressed her lips to mine.

The kiss was brief, more inquisitive than anything else. Frea pulled back and let her body float somewhat away from mine, but her gaze remained fixed to my eyes. Hampered by the water I took a slow step forward, closing the gap between us. I raised my hand to Frea’s mouth and ran my ridged fingertips across her reddened, lightly chapped lips. Encouraged by her lack of movement away from me, I let my hand travel from her mouth to her neck, feeling the curve of her chin and throat. The hard ridge of her collarbone gave way to softer flesh below, and soon my brave hand found purchase on a pendulous, sloping breast. Again, her nipple tickled my palm.

I had never thought such a sensation as holding another woman’s breast would feel so perfectly right. The softness pained me. I longed to feel both of Frea’s breasts, and ached for another kiss. The shaman no doubt read my mind and stepped forward. The slick of her tongue against mine was at once a nuanced and familiar sensation, one not experienced with anyone for nearly a year.

My hand traveled to her back and hip, and up again to cup a breast. I felt the vibration of Frea’s moan on my lips. Slowly, I trailed my fingertips down her muscular abdomen, and with some trepidation, lower still to her mound.

With a splash, Frea grasped my wrist and held it in front of her body. Her glare held traces of betrayal, though I couldn’t understand why. In a moment, her eyes softened, and she let me go.

“Apologies, Deborah. I do not—” She turned away and smoothed her hair with wet hands. “I do not wish to be touched in this place.”

Stunned, I was momentarily at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” I said softly. I pulled into myself, folding my arms over my breasts.

Frea walked a few steps away and let herself sink under the surface. I attempted to pretend everything was as normal as it had been not five minutes ago, and proceeded to wash my hair with the warm mineral water. Frea reemerged further from me and scrubbed her hair as well.

I wanted, and perhaps expected Frea to explain what had just happened, why she pulled away so abruptly. I supposed that she simply did not like sex, was maybe injured down there, or perhaps was not quite over her lost love. The realization that I was very ready for new companionship, at least in this small way, was somewhat disheartening. I would have given anything for Yrsarald to be at my side in this moment or any other. Anything. But as this was not a possibility, my body, and perhaps my heart following, had begun to move on.

I desperately wanted to feel the softness of Frea’s body against mine again. This awakening desire did not feel like a product of simple physical need or loneliness, or a substitute for Yrsarald. I was attracted to Frea. However surprising, this was fact. But the woman had pulled away. She did not want to be sexually touched, at least below the waist. I accepted this, and forced thoughts of Frea’s body out of my mind.

“Do you?” called a soft, low voice from across the pool.

I looked toward the sound to see Frea facing me, expressionless but with a steady gaze. “Do I what?” I asked before swallowing hard.

She half-swam, half-walked toward me until she was within reach. “Do you wish to be touched? Between your legs. I never—” Frea looked away “—but Morwen enjoyed it.” She looked to me again, and a moment later, closed the small space between us. “I desire you, Deborah, in my way. I sense that you feel the same. Tell me if I am wrong.”

Beneath the water, Frea grasped one of my hands. Her thumb gently stroked my palm.

My gaze dropped to her mouth. Trembling, I breathed, “You’re not wrong.” Frea’s other hand landed on my hip, and I shivered.

Unable to hold myself back any longer, in swift movements I cupped Frea’s cheek and pulled her to me for another kiss. Frea let go of my hand to wrap an arm around my waist, and I reached up to grasp the back of her neck.

Her hand smoothed lower and across my thigh, landing between my legs. Frea wasted no time in letting her fingers prod deeper. At the feeling of pressure against sensitive spots, I moaned, and clamped down on Frea’s neck. With my other hand I claimed her breast, squeezing a bit harder than before. I wanted to hear Frea moan again, if nothing else a pleasant distraction from what was due to be a quick end on my part. The forgotten reaches of my body were raging, and from experience I knew how quickly skilled fingers could soothe them.

I caressed Frea’s breast how I would have wanted mine caressed. I teased the nipple how I would have wanted mine teased. Frea moaned and moaned again, an elegant sound and sensation that partially drew my mind away from her fingers that had delved inside me, and her thumb that stroked my clitoris.

Needing air, I broke our kiss and gasped through unforgiving caresses. I fell into Frea and clutched at her body with both hands, and her mouth suckled and nipped at the flesh of my shoulder. I quavered a sound that resembled her name. Her lips moved to my neck, and her thrusts quickened. Even nearing climax, my body was already shaking.

I moved one hand from Frea’s back to her hair and clung to one of the braids. I focused on the sensation of her breasts touching mine, of the soft firmness of her muscular, feminine body, of her teeth biting into my shoulder. I envisioned what it would be like to return the pleasure she was giving me, even if she did not want me to do so. The thought pained me. I stood straight, gently tugged at her braid, and moved in to kiss her. Our tongues met again, and with her teeth she gently pulled on my lower lip.

Frea’s strokes slowed but retained a steady pace. I knew I was close. Though I wanted to continue kissing her, Frea pulled me tight against her body and wrapped her free arm around my back. She kissed my shoulder, neck, and earlobe before whispering something in her language. As she did so, a warmth stronger than the hot spring water inflamed my core. She was using healing magic. The combination of persistent friction and intense heat would have been enough to send me reeling, but Frea quickened her pace once more, still reciting something to me in words I couldn’t understand.

The force of Frea’s thrusts strengthened until she had me jostling against her. My mind was lost. I wailed. My heart pounded as my fingertips dug into Frea’s flesh, and my body shuddered against hers as an orgasm continued to sweep through my muscles. In place of mutterings Frea bellowed her speech in a volume to match my cries.

Her thrusts did not slow until I descended from my peak. With every lengthened stroke I cried out to her, and her foreign words continued to fill my ears. When I began to draw slow, deep breaths, Frea withdrew her hand and pulled me close. She held me in a soft embrace and continued to speak, but in whispers.

Krikit yipped from the sidelines. Frea quieted, and I chuckled. I opened my eyes to find the dog laying at the edge of the pool, watching us.

“Does he think you were attacking me?” I joked.

Frea laughed through her nose and leaned in to kiss my shoulder. “He understands we are not in danger.”

Smiling, I turned to the shaman, and kissed her parted lips. “What were those words?”

The woman cracked a small smile. “My thoughts,” she breathed as she gently caressed one of my breasts with the back of her curled fingers. “And some old magic.”

“Magic? You mean, other than the heat?”

Frea nodded. “What you felt, I felt.”

I eyed her, skeptical. “You used magic to… to orgasm?” She nodded again. I huffed a laugh and stared, mouth agape. I reached up to cup her cheeks and pulled her to me for another brief kiss.

Distracted by my increasingly pruned skin, I pulled away to examine the raisins that were my finger pads. “I think we should get out of the water,” I uttered. “But I want to wash my hair a bit more.”

“I will start a fire,” Frea offered. Instead of my lips, she kissed my cheek, and made for the edge of the pool where Krikit awaited with butt-wagging excitement.

. . . . . .

Frea was already dressed in her hide underarmor and preparing some yam for dinner when I arrived at the campfire she had made. Krikit was gnawing on a rather sizeable bone. It wasn’t human; perhaps bear. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know where he found it, or for how long it had been rotting.

The shaman, concentrated on cooking, said nothing to me as I stood naked by the fire. My hair and body were wet and needed drying, and I used a small sheet of buckskin Frea had taken from the Skaal camp. My leather armor was thankfully uncomplicated, and I was able to dress quickly. My monthly mess was finally finished, and I was able to forego a bulky undergarment.

As the cold of the northern autumn evening set in, I was thankful for the cloak that was given to me by one of Frea’s clansmen. Considering the cloak I had worn for years was likely in ashes in Windhelm, this gift would soon be a vital part of my return to Skyrim.

After slicing the yam and placing the pieces on a slab of rock, Frea sat next to me and held out a hefty portion over my lap. I silently accepted my dinner and nibbled at the sweet, mushy meal.

Frea devoured her yam and moved on to a strip of jerky, sucking on the end rather than eating it. Seeing her in such a daze, I knew she was deep in thought, and I watched, and waited. When the sky was black and I grew tired, I gave up on having a meaningful heart-to-heart with the woman and slipped under my fur blanket and settled onto my bedroll, more gifts provided by the Skaal.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep I heard rustling and light grunts, and then the _flap_ of a bedroll being laid out directly behind me. A moment later my fur blanket was lifted, letting in cold air. But then the unmistakable warm body of a Nord pulled close to my back, and my blanket was shifted to cover the both of us. An arm curled around my side, and a hand rested on my abdomen. My loose hair was moved from my shoulders and a soft, lingering kiss warmed my neck.

I was thankful Frea had not yet donned her armor. The _stalhrim_ gear would not have made for a very comfortable cuddle. The thought made me chuckle.

“Why do you laugh?” Frea asked.

“I thought of you holding me like this, but wearing your heavy armor.”

The woman laughed lightly. Her hand on my abdomen shifted to settle above my heart, and remained there until morning.


	22. Chapter 22

_I watch as werewolves and werehawks dance under the rosy light of a large reddened moon, low to the horizon. There is only one – where is the second, smaller moon? Hidden. Yes. Hidden by the engorged blood moon._

_Howling begs my attention. They are not in danger. Others are in danger. The prey. The toys. The men not yet made beast._

_A thick mist blankets the playing field._

_Lumbering giants cross the meadow. The werebears do not join the dance. The werebears do not sing._

_The werebears bark. Bark, bark bark! BARK BARK, BARK!_

 

Piercing sounds raised me from my slumber. Disoriented, I half expected to see a world covered in a pink glow. Instead I was greeted by the typical sun-blocked morning, to a world nearly devoid of light, saved only by a dim redness to the east and the dying embers of our campfire.

“The dog is frightened,” Frea grumbled behind me, apparently just as annoyed as I was at our abrupt awakening. She whipped the fur blanket off of us and scrambled to her feet, pulling me up with her.

I groaned and rubbed my eyes. The world was too dark; I couldn’t see a damned thing.

“ _Laas!”_

The darkness lit up blood red with the auras of at least two dozen people. Likely more.

People. People? No. Something….

I gasped. “Werebears.”

“Werebears!?” Frea hissed. A moment later, she exhaled deeply. “Yes. I feel them.”

“They’re waiting for us,” I said softly. “Being careful. Not angry.”

“Cautious, yes. They always are.”

A line of werebears formed a wide arc in front of us. The only manner of escape would have been in the opposite direction – into the hot spring.

But my dragon sense did not relate any hostility. We were not about to be attacked. We were being assessed.

Above my head, I cast a Candlelight spell. I wanted the werebears to see us for what we were – two women, unarmed aside from magic. Our weapons, and Frea’s armor, were in a pile a few steps away. Though I could have easily slowed time with a Shout, grabbed Frea and used another Shout to dash away, we had no reason to. If we were trespassing, we would leave. No big deal.

No big deal.

“Do they speak my language?” I asked Frea.

A moment later, she answered, “I do not know. I have never spoken with a werebear.”

“Never?”

Frea shook her head.

The red light of multiple auras faded, and the werebears were cloaked in darkness once more. Growing nervous, I called out, “We will leave, if you want us to.”

Murmuring sounded from before us. I could not discern words.

“Leave?” called a masculine, gruff voice from across the darkness. More murmurs filled the void, and tentative footsteps crunched a patch of snow before muffled against barren earth.

As a figure reached the extent of the light above me, I saw what appeared to be a normal, naked human foot. My eyes traveled up as the man neared, gaining an eyeful of the short and hirsute greying older man wearing nothing but a swath of white clay body paint and a calm expression.

The man stepped closer to me and sniffed the air between us. “Dragon Woman?” he asked slowly in Norren, perhaps utilizing as best he could a limited vocabulary.

It was obvious what the man meant. “Yes,” I answered with a nod, “I’m Dragonborn. _Dovahkiin_.” For whatever reason, Frea and the others on this island seemed to understand the ancient, dragon word for what I was.

The older man turned behind him and waved forward. I still sensed no hostility, and this person before me was stark naked, so I wasn’t expecting a full-on attack. Unless, of course, the band of werebears decided to shift and _then_ attack. Then I would start to worry.

Only one person stepped to the man’s side, a woman of about the same age, sixty or so. This woman too was naked but for clay markings, though covered less thoroughly. She bowed slightly, addressed me as _Dovahkiin_ , and held out her hands close together in front of her. I reached out, and let her take my hands in hers.

“We search, _Dovahkiin_ ,” she said. “Now, we find.”

On her chest, over her heart, I could make out the hint of a tattoo, one that I recognized instantly. A stylized bear paw with a blue square base and five perpendicular vertical lines.

My breath caught at the memory of seeing that tattoo on Yrsarald for the first time, and examining it closely. The phantom sensation of a thick forest of chest hair tickled my fingertips.

“Your tattoo,” I said to the woman as I stared above her left breast. “I know that marking.”

A faint collective gasp sounded in the crowd still hidden by darkness. The woman before me appeared shocked and troubled, but the man did not react at all. I looked him in the eye.

“I knew a man with this tattoo. Yrsarald Geiraldsen, son of Geirald and Hrothvi. Brother to Jora.”

Again, the shrouded werebears gasped, and I clearly heard murmurings of “Yrsarald” and “Geirald”. The older man and woman turned to look behind them. From the darkness emerged a woman of about my age, perhaps older. She was heavy with child, and covered in clay markings as well. Her hair was the same brown-red shade as Yrsarald’s, though somewhat concealed by the white clay.

“Yrsarald Geiraldsen was the son of my mother’s sister,” the younger woman said in flawless Norren. “He left this place when we were children, with no word. You are from Skyrim?”

I nodded. “That is where I met Yrsarald. He was a soldier, for many years. I’m….” My stomach clenched. “He died, recently. And Jora died many years ago. I’m sorry.”

The younger woman bowed her head, and smoothed her palms against her swollen belly. “This… hurts my heart to hear. Yrsarald and Jora were one of the last of the Old Blood. Do you know if they found mates on the mainland?”

A frown set in deep, and I forced myself not to cry. “I don’t know about Jora. Yrsarald never mentioned anything. I think she died before finding anyone. But I—Yrsarald does have one son.” I swallowed hard. “My son.”

The younger woman appeared shocked, but only for a moment. A sad smile then crossed her face. “Is he with you?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s in Skyrim.”

“But you are not of the blood,” Yrsarald’s cousin said. “Does the boy know? Has he been Blessed?”

“Blessed? I—no, he’s only a baby. I don’t—” I rubbed my forehead. “I’m sorry, no. I don’t think he’ll be a werebear.” _Just as Yrsa wanted_ , I thought with a smidgen of spite. “Did, did you want something?” I asked, changing the subject. “You were searching for me? How did you find me?”

“Yes,” answered the older man as he tapped his nose several times. He must have smelled his way to me. “Dragon, near,” he said. “You hunt.” He jabbed the air with his first finger several times toward me.

“Oh. I-is that all?” I asked, looking at the others that I could see. “You want me to hunt a dragon?”

The three of them nodded. “We have heard about the _Dovahkiin_ ,” said Yrsarald’s cousin. “You have killed many dragons. We ask that you kill one more.”

 _Many dragons_. Surely they were merging news of myself and Torug into a single entity. So far, I had only taken two dragon souls into me. The thought of hunting a dragon with just myself and Frea was laughable. But agreeing to their request couldn’t hurt. Probably.

“Sure,” I said, shrugging. “Where is it?”

“In the mountains north of Raven Rock, two days travel.”

I sighed through my nose, not exactly thrilled at the prospect of going out of my way to hunt a dragon. “Has the dragon been hunting you?” I asked.

The older man said something to the younger woman, to which she responded with a nod, and then turned back to me. “We cannot proceed with our rituals while the dragon hunts those mountains. We cannot hunt a dragon, and cannot ask for help from those in the city. Will you help us?”

Of course, I couldn’t say no. Not to these people, Yrsarald’s kin. I couldn’t say no, even if it was a lie.

“I will try,” I said. “But I need to go to Raven Rock, first.”

The sky had brightened somewhat, and I began to see the shades of people waiting on the sidelines. While I had been talking, Frea had donned her armor and gathered our things. Krikit was by her side, tail floof wagging.

“We will leave now for the city,” I said to the werebears. “I… I’m sorry about Yrsarald, but… know that his blood lives in my son.”

I stepped to the side, toward Frea, clutched her arm, and kept on walking. The werebears in the background broke the line and opened a path for us.

“What is the boy’s name?” the younger woman called.

I stopped, turned back, and told her. “Virald.” And then, for no reason I could explain, I added, “He cries a lot.”

With that, I caught up to Frea who had walked ahead, and did not turn back again.

 

Once we had hiked our way out of the valley of hot springs, Frea broke the silence that had hung heavy between us.

“Your man was a werebear,” she said flatly.

“Yes. He escaped this island with his sister when he was young. She didn’t want to live the life her parents did, and took him with her to Skyrim. He lived his life trying to forget, to avoid being what he was, but…. In the end, he died a werebear. A vampire bit him. Made him crazy, made him shift. He attacked everyone.” I clutched my throat, reliving the moment Yrsarald nearly killed me.

After a pregnant pause, Frea said, “I am sorry. I did not think to ask what your scars were made by. Is it truly this bad in Skyrim? The vampires? Are there this many?”

“Yes, Frea. It’s bad. Your Skaal were slaughtered by Torug. The people of Skyrim are being killed by Torug’s vampire army. I do not know if my family is safe. I don’t know when I will know. I have to remind myself every day that the only thing that matters right now is Torug. Finding Torug, finding the bow, and fixing the sun. Then, I can worry about my family.”

A breath later Frea grasped my hand, and held it as we walked.

“Your gods chose you well, Deborah the Dragon Hunter.”

Frea’s remark nearly made me chuckle. “That isn’t what they made me,” I said. “I was told that Torug is the hunter. I… I am kin.”

“Kin?”

“Dragon kin. I was made differently than Torug. I don’t know why. An answer to a problem, I think.”

“They made you to hunt Torug. Hunt the Dragon Hunter.”

I nodded. “I have no desire to hunt dragons. That’s a difference between me and Torug. He thirsts, wants power, and I do not.”

“Perhaps you are meant to defend the dragons from Torug.” I glanced at Frea. She was serious. “Do you truly intend to hunt the dragon as the werebears asked?”

I looked away, focusing on the path before us. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “One more dragon soul can only help me in the fight against Torug. He must have dozens within him. But I cannot do it alone. I will have to find my friends in Raven Rock. And if—if they’re alive….”

I didn’t finish my thought, and Frea didn’t pry. Instead, she handed me some cold, cooked yam for a breakfast on the go.

“You know,” I said, “after I leave this island, I will be glad to never eat this stuff again.”

Frea cracked a smile as she laughed.

“ _But at least it isn’t giant_ _cricket_ ,” I muttered under my breath.

. . . . . .

As the red sun was setting, Raven Rock came into view. The city and its gates seemed to be carved into the side of a massive cliff comprised of basalt columns and a different type of stone, perhaps limestone. Torches and braziers blazed before the entrance, forming a path. I had expected a grand gate, and was disappointed and confused to see a tunnel that sloped steeply downward at a dangerous angle. As we descended, passing oddly-dressed guards without issue, I had to anchor my body to not spill forward down the path. Though the entrance floor itself felt hard-packed, the way must have been continually covered by a fresh layer of ash and sand.

Once we hit flat ground, the city sprawled out before us. Strange, somewhat domed glorified huts littered the outskirts. They appeared carved, resembling the roach-like behemoth Frea and I encountered outside of Tel Mithryn. Beyond these structures, and to my left, were larger, more conventional buildings much like those I had seen in Blacklight. I supposed Raven Rock was an ancient city to have such a mix of what appeared to be traditional and modern architecture. I had only seen a portion of Blacklight, which was indeed an ancient port city. Perhaps it boasted its own more traditional structures, too.

As we walked deeper into the city, crowds thickened and the din rose. I raised my right hand to cast the Clear-Seeing spell and watched people scatter to make way for the intangible blue magic. I walked in the direction of the magic. I kept casting. The snake of fog led us to one of the odd structures, in front of which many people appeared to be in the midst of drunken revelry.

A tavern. My magic had led us to a tavern. Not a morgue, not a cemetery, not a prison. A tavern, or an inn. I felt as if an elephant had been lifted from my shoulders.

Looking around, I couldn’t see any of my friends, and I squeezed my way through the throng toward the front door.

Inside, the air was warm and sweet, and globe lanterns the like I had seen in Blacklight lit the interior well. The foyer was not on the same level as the inn proper, and instead felt like a greeting place, filled with patrons already possessing a bottle or stein. I spotted many more Dunmer in odd armor that looked as if carved from bone or ivory, some with added white sashes or capes. These men and women must have been guards on break, as their armor matched that of those we saw within the city entranceway. I had not gotten a good look then as it had been too dark, but now I could fully appreciate the armor. The helmets of those I assumed to be guards freakishly resembled those of Storm Troopers, though made of yellowed boney material, not gleaming white plastic.

I again cast the tracking magic and it led me down and inside the inn. People stared and glowered, but I didn’t care. I cast the magic and walked past the bar counter, past perhaps a hundred or so patrons in this crowded place, and kept walking toward darker, less populated reaches of the structure.

Over the din I almost didn’t hear my name being called. I thought it had been Frea, but she was standing behind me, mouth closed and waiting for me to proceed. Krikit was silent too, held by Frea from a makeshift cloth lead.

“Deb!” I heard again, but couldn’t tell from which direction the sound came.

Seconds later, hands thwapped down onto my shoulders and a strong grip spun me around. A breath’s distance from me was the grubby yet ever-handsome face of Thrynn, smiling and bright-eyed.

“It’s yyyou!” he slurred as he hugged me tight and thrashed our joined bodies from side to side. He was topless, and very sweaty. And he smelled. “You’re not dead!”

“Ah-hhh, no, Thrynn. Not dead!”

“Ohh, my gods,” the man said as he let me go and fell to his knees behind me. “What’s thisssa dog! I’ve ne’er seen a dog like this. Silver dog.” Thrynn dove into Krikit, petting his head and scruffing his fur without waiting for him to show signs of being comfortable with this sort of confrontation. I worried when I saw Krikit’s ears flatten, but the dog watched me and, perhaps noting that I was not in distress, calmed down and his ears perked up just in time for Thrynn to stand and face Frea.

“And who’re you?” he drawled. “Ice armor goddess.”

“Thrynn?” I called, tugging at his arm. “Thrynn, remember me, not-dead Deb.”

“ _Ki-feiga ki-Dibella!_ ” he blubbered as he stumbled toward me for another, softer hug. “I was so _sad_ ,” he cried, and then whispering added, “so sad! I don’ wanchoo to die.”

I slowly rubbed his clammy back. “I don’t want you to die either, Thrynn.”

“We have to tell ‘em!” he said as he pulled away, excited. “They—they’re here, somewhere.”

“Back there?” I asked, pointing to the depths of the inn where my magic had pointed.

“Dunno. Dunno,” he said, quietly. “I’m….” He swerved a bit before righting himself. “I’m a li’l drunk.”

Frea burst out in laughter at the absurd understatement.

I grasped Thrynn’s shoulder and cast Clear-Seeing again, startling him and other onlookers. The fog still led to the same area. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go tell everyone I’m alive.”

As we walked, Frea whispered into my ear, “Nords cannot handle well the drink of the Dunmer.”

I nodded, remembering what Tythis had said about something called—pajama, pajama… _sujamma_. I reached to my waist, unhooked the waterskin from my belt, and handed it to Thrynn. “Drink this water. All of it. Please.”

“Alright,” he mumbled before accepting the waterskin.

The magic led us toward what looked like a storage area, illuminated by a small wall sconce. Casks, buckets, and crates were stacked in neat rows, and in the midst of the inventory fortress were the partially shrouded figures of Altanir and Serana, intertwined in a passionate embrace.

We stood there, unnoticed, watching the scene play out.

“Ah, yeah,” Thrynn said before clearing his throat and pointing to the entranced couple. “They do that now. Hey!” he said, turning to me. “Did you know that Serana’s a vampurr? I mean—” he made a hand gesture suggesting his head was exploding. “Vamp-er. Vampire! Vamp.”

My eyes went wide in feigned surprise. “Wow. A vampire, eh?”

Thrynn gestured toward Serana. “Vampire! Right— _gah!_ ” He leaned back and chugged the waterskin dry, grunted, and slammed the thing back into my palm. “Thankf’ly she didn’t wanna suck _my…_ blood.” He laughed loudly, amused by what might have been a sexual joke.

His laughter was what finally alerted Altanir and Serana to our presence.

“Red!” shouted Altanir after thrusting himself away from Serana, his brain not quite making the connection that they had clearly been discovered.

Serana, on the other hand, smirked and wiped what appeared to be a trickle of blood from her lips. “So, you yet live.” She added something in her own language that was too drowned out by the tavern music to understand.

“I am indeed alive. Where’s Neriwen?”

Altanir wrung his neck and looked around. “I… don’t know. Somewhere here.” He shrugged. “She does her best work in crowds like this. Usually finds enough money to keep our bellies full.”

Thrynn let out a lengthy chuckle.

It took me a moment, but I thought I understood. She was off filching some drunkard’s coin.

I turned to Frea. She was expressionless. “Are you alright?” I asked her.

She gave a small smile and a shallow nod. “I have only visited this city twice before. I am not….” She let out a single laugh. “It is very noisy inside.”

“It is,” I agreed in earnest. Turning to the others, I said, “This is Frea. She helped me get to Tel Mithryn.”

“Freaaa,” Thrynn repeated, and afterwards made a very unwelcomed sound that indicated sexual interest in the woman. The shaman nodded in greeting to my friends, but did not offer her arm, nor did my friends approach her.

“So, you got to Tel Mithryn,” said Altanir. “Did you meet with the Telvanni?”

“Er, yes,” I began, “but they won’t help us.”

Serana lightly groaned and face-palmed. “Why not?”

“They have no interest in helping. They are… fine.”

“Fine,” Serana repeated.

“They have underground gardens,” I said. “They are fine.” I sighed, and plopped down onto a large crate. “Why are you still here? I hoped you would be, but why didn’t you go back to Skyrim?”

“No boats,” Thrynn said and sat down next to me. His damp arm wrapped around my waist and clutched my hip. I nudged him off.

“What do you mean no boats?” I questioned. “Not even to Dawnstar?”

Altanir shook his head. “Not yet. Soon, they keep telling me. There are many refugees coming here, an’ not many boats want to leave again to get more, even for coin.”

“And Serana can’t convince them otherwise?” I asked, and received only shaking heads in response. “Do you have rooms here?”

Altanir laughed. “There are too many people in the city, now. People sleep where they can.”

“We have been sleeping here,” Serana added, patting the top of a crate. “Altanir and I, that is. Thrynn and Neriwen have found the occasional other bed.”

Thrynn sniggered at that remark. Obviously, I was missing some piece of intel.

“Deborah,” Frea spoke softly against my ear. She tilted her head toward the main part of the tavern and grasped my hand to lead me there and onward, back to the foyer and out the door. She kept walking until we reached a quiet respite in the shadow of an unlit alley. The darkness unnerved me, and I cast a small orb of Magelight between our bodies.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I should leave this place now,” she said, “walk as far as I can, east.”

“Frea, the sun is set. Just stay the night,” I said as I ran my palms up and down her upper arms. “Leave early tomorrow.”

“Night and day are both dark. I can light my own way. And it is too loud, Deborah. I would never sleep here.”

“In the inn, yes it’s noisy. But I’m sure we can find—”

“I cannot,” she interjected with a whisper as she gave me Krikit’s lead. “I saw you to your friends,” she uttered, barely audible. “And I must return to my people as quickly as I can.”

“Frea, there are other people with them.”

She shook her head. “They need me. I am sorry.” The shaman turned to leave, but I gripped her arm firm, stopping her. She did not resist. She turned back to me, but kept her gaze low.

“Frea.” Dropping Krikit’s lead, I reached forward and cupped her face between my palms. She refused to look at me, so I pulled her close and hugged her. “Do not end it like this,” I whispered, breath shaking. “Don’t run away.”

Frea backed out of the embrace, hands moving to my hips, and finally looked me in the eyes. The Magelight had dissipated, but a nearby torch allowed for a modicum of sight. We shared a silent, knowing moment during which I felt on the verge of tears.

The shaman then leaned into me, pressed her forehead to mine and breathed, “This is not the end.” At that, Frea forcefully kissed my lips, pushed herself away from me, and marched out of the alley.

Krikit trotted after her, cloth lead dragging in the dirt. He stopped once he cleared the alley, and I watched his tail floof wag as he watched Frea go. The dog turned to me, tongue lolling to the side, an expectant, lively look on his face. He then turned back to the direction Frea had walked and sat on his haunches. His tail made an arc in the dirt where it continued to wag.

I leaned forward, bracing my upper body against my thighs with my arms. I silently scolded myself for not realizing that this was exactly how her leaving was going to happen, whether tonight or in the morning. Frea wasn’t going to go with me to Skyrim. That had already been established.

Perhaps it was better this way. Cauterize the wound instead of pampering it with salves and stitches.

I forced myself to take a breath. _This is not the end_. Taking Frea’s words to heart, I stood, walked up to Krikit, and crouched beside him. “Come back inside, pup. We’ll find some dinner.”

The dog barked a cheerful bark, and we returned to the noisy, vibrant inn.

Not two seconds after the door closed behind me, I heard a confident voice say, “She left you, eh?”

I spun around to find Neriwen leaning against the wall, one knee bent with the foot bracing her body. She took a long drag from her pipe and blew the smoke out away from my face.

“Neriwen,” I sighed. “I’m glad to see you.”

“She’s pretty,” the green-haired elf continued. “Didn’t work out?”

I sank my face into my palms and grumbled. “Neriwen, I don’t want to talk about her. I just want to get very, very drunk.”

She chuckled and pushed herself off the wall, delved her thin fingers into a pocket on her chest armor, and pulled out a small coin purse. “It isn’t every day a Dragonborn reappears from the bottom of the sea.” She led me inward, back into the depths of the inn. “First drink’s on me.”

She then looked around us, tugged me close, and in a whisper added, “Actually, first drink’s on several of these guys. But never mind that. It’s the thought that counts.” She pulled away and winked at me, then playfully smacked my butt before trotting towards the bar.

. . . . . .

At some point the next day, my bladder woke me. Somewhere between still drunk and hung over, I stumbled my way around sleeping patrons in a groggy, desperate search for a piss pot or latrine. Normally in taverns one could just follow the smell, but I wasn’t smelling my way to relief. I resorted to pissing in the very alley Frea had left me in. From the smell of it, I wasn’t the first.

Krikit, who had gone off on his own at some point during the night, found me there and sniffed my leavings.

“ _Oh, god, dog_ ,” I hissed in English and gently pushed him away from the puddle. “Come on. I need food. I need a lot of food.”

No one was attending the tavern bar, but there was food just sitting there. I figured I would do the normal honor-system thing and just leave some gold behind in exchange. Someone’s gold, anyway. I grabbed a hunk of bread, ripped a crevasse down the middle, and stuffed it full of vegetables and pieces of meat. I then grabbed what looked like tripe and tossed it to the floor for Krikit. I searched the bar for some water, but couldn’t find any, unfortunately.

Back in the storage area my friends had claimed as their temporary territory, Altanir lay in Serana’s arms, Thrynn lay snoring with his knapsack in his arms instead of under his head, and Neriwen lay in the arms of a relatively handsome Dunmer man with a shaved head who dwarfed her size. I vaguely remembered him from the night before. He was a guard, a captain if I recalled correctly, named Velen, or Veleth. Something like that.

As I chewed through the tough meat in my sandwich, people began to stir. Water was dispersed to those who needed it – which was almost everyone – and hot food was being prepared.

Quietly, a man began to pick at his lute. He was tuning it. I wouldn’t have thought others would want to be awoken unnaturally from their _sujamma_ -induced slumber, but the man soon played a slow tune, humming along. And then he began to sing.

The captain groaned as he woke, rousing Neriwen as he shifted. “Not this song again.”

“I like this song,” Serana said in a particularly lofty voice. Her fingers were stroking a sleeping Altanir’s silken black tresses.

I quickly realized that the lyrics of the song were what I figured to be the Dunmeri language, and I understood nothing. “What do the words mean? It sounds sad.”

“Mm, tell her, Veleth,” Neriwen said. The captain grumbled something and flicked his wrist at the air. A few nudges from Neriwen later, the man relented.

“Do you recall the Red Year?” he asked me.

“Recall? I have heard of it.” Altanir had mentioned that about two hundred years ago, the volcano in northern Morrowind erupted, destroying much of the country and burning southern Solstheim. It still spewed ash over the northern lands.

“Hmph, well,” Veleth said, “this song is about that. Sort of. More like, what we do now, what the Dunmer have done since then.”

I stared at the man, expecting more explanation. “Which is what?”

Veleth rubbed his face. “That we… stand as one against destruction. And, if we’re to die, drink like there’s no tomorrow.”

Neriwen chuckled and rested her chin on the man’s shoulder. “The song’s a bit more romantic than that.”

“Romantic?” Veleth bit back. “You’re calling my homeland going up in flames romantic? Souls void of memory and attacking anything they come across? Romantic?” Neriwen planted a light kiss on the captain’s cheek, which seemed to calm him down. “Anyway,” he continued, “bards started singing it again, after the sky went dark. They wonder what great destruction will happen to us now. Knowing what’s going on in Skyrim isn’t helping to calm their fears.”

The melancholy tune continued, as if a reverse lullaby meant to rouse people gently. After a few minutes, the volume of lute and voice rose. I recognized a repeating phrase that had played several times, but the next phrase was different. Louder, almost angry. No, not angry – determined. And then with a sudden burst of life, dozens of patrons began to sing the oft-repeated phrase, some holding their drinks or food in the air. The swell of soulful sound gave me chills. Even Veleth was singing, quietly, perhaps out of habit.

The song ended, and patrons murmured their good mornings and other greetings. Veleth stood, pulling Neriwen up with him.

“I have to go,” he muttered to her. The pair kissed passionately, and he walked off, but not before getting a firm palmful of Neriwen’s buttocks.

I held back my amusement as Neriwen and I shared a glance. And then Thrynn let out a loud snort in his sleep, followed by cries of “dragon kisses”, and the two of us burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ki-feiga ki-Dibella - not-dead not-Dibella


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me. I know my updates have been slow and sporadic, but I promise it’s worth it. Nothing but glory and gore from here on out.
> 
> Content warning: graphic violence.

 

The tranquil sea glowed a dull dark pink as we rowed our way back to Skyrim. Or, rather, Serana rowed. Unlike the rest of us, the vampire did not need to sleep or rest, and was content in offering her services. She had felt inferior due to her unexpected inability to persuade a boatman, via vampiric prowess, to take us to Dawnstar. Eventually, in the middle of the night, she and Neriwen commandeered a large rowboat, and we were off.

Though not omnipotent, there seemed little Serana could not do. Her most impressive feat was saving everyone from the sea dragon attack, excluding the devoured boatman, and myself. She claims she would have found me, too, had she not been side-tracked by Thrynn, who had nearly drowned. I was surprised to learn that Serana knew what was basically CPR, no doubt some remnant memory from her pre-vampiric life, as she currently had no need for respiring.

I did not tell the others about the dragon I quasi-promised the werebear clan that I would hunt and kill. While the issue was by no means a secret, I did not want to risk anyone in my company suggesting we venture off into unknown mountains to fix someone else’s problem. Even if that someone else was Yrsarald’s estranged kin. The extra dragon soul would have been nice, but we simply didn’t have the time.

 

The cloak given to me by the Skaal became an immediate necessity once out at sea, and I did not expect the autumn weather to get any warmer. I glared at the bare-armed Thrynn, who probably thought the weather perfectly pleasant. Altanir, too, made no indication that he was cold. But Neriwen and I were shivering. She had no cloak of her own, but being a petite person, she was able to tuck in close to me and take comfort in the warmth of the brown bear fur.

In that cold moment, I thought of Frea, and of the hot springs. I knew that there were sulfur springs halfway between Windhelm and Riften, but I had never bathed in them, nor any other natural hot spring before that. A lot of firsts happened on Solstheim.

No one asked about Frea, which was fine by me. I had not fully processed what had happened and wasn’t ready to talk about her. My friends were much more interested in the silvery dog that clung to my side at all hours and ate a portion of our meager supply of food. But they liked Krikit, and enjoyed hearing about our adventures.

When I asked why they didn’t travel east to Tel Mithryn, my friends explained that they were simply told not to bother. Captain Veleth, the guard in Raven Rock whom Neriwen cozied up to, had heard from travelers about the massive ward around the settlement and knew that the Telvanni were traditionally exclusive anyway. Veleth claimed that my friends would never have been given an audience, and advised them to seek passage back to Skyrim as soon as they could. The city was already overcrowded with refugees and the situation was not going to improve anytime soon. But the captain had promised to put the word out to his people about me, should I be alive and cross their paths.

I told my companions about my reunion at Tel Mithryn with a close friend who just happened to be Telvanni. I was hopeful that Brelyna would be able to convince some there to come to Winterhold. My friends were less optimistic.

They saw this journey as wasted time, a wasted effort, and a needless risk of our lives. I did not disagree, but I left Solstheim having gained more than I lost. It was hard to regret the journey with the furry reward sitting on my and Neriwen’s feet. It was hard to regret anything, having met Frea.

The delayed onset of romantic feelings for the woman was entirely unexpected, growing stronger since she left Raven Rock. I held no hard feelings for her leaving. If I felt anything, it was hope.

In the back of my mind sat the memory of Yrsarald, warm and fuzzy like my new cloak, and my new canine companion. Thinking of my love in that moment brought more comfort than pain, and I could only wonder if that meant his spirit was at rest somewhere, or nowhere at all, as he would have wanted.

. . . . . .

The spartan docks of Dawnstar were far more active than I had expected. I had never visited the small town in the center of Skyrim’s northern reaches, but Bird had always described the place as simple, cold and wet, with few people willing to live there and never more than one or two boats at the docks. As Serana pulled us in to an awaiting dockhand, I caught glimpses of some of the people bustling about the area. Most of them were armored, some were decked in mage’s robes, and others wore the metal-plated leather armor of the Dawnguard.

As the young dockhand helped me step out of the rowboat, he uttered a celebratory, “Greetings, Dragonborn.” I stuttered a reply as he received Neriwen and finally Thrynn.

“You know me?” I asked as he made certain the rope tethering the boat was tight.

“Hm? Of course! We were told to expect you. It’s hard to miss the sword, and the scars.”

Of course. _Of course._ Was I, and my sword, really that recognizable? “Right,” I muttered. “So, you were expecting me?”

“Yeah,” the dockhand said before walking past us and beckoning forward. “A courier from Fort Dawnguard said you were going to Solstheim by way of Morrowind, and that you might end up here. And then their leader showed up a few days ago.”

“Leader?” asked Altanir. “Isran?”

“If Isran is a scary dark fellow with silver eyes, then yes.”

Altanir chuckled briefly before clearing his throat.

“He’s in the jarl’s longhouse,” the dockhand explained. “Took up the jarl’s quarters.”

“And where’s the jarl?” I asked.

The young man eyed me a moment before answering. “Dead. He died with most of the other folk. Those who survived must have fled to Solitude or Winterhold. I never found everyone’s body.”

I cringed at the dockhand’s choice of words. A pang of worry then hit my gut. “Did you know the Winter-Heart family? Jorulf, and….” I at once forgot the names of Bird’s mother and father.

“Jorulf.” The dockhand thought a moment. “Big guy?”

“Yes! He’s huge. With a smile to match.”

He nodded. “I knew him. I didn’t see him in the shelter, though, and he’s not here now, I don’t think. Though there are so many people it would be easy to miss him.”

“And his parents?” I asked.

Shrugging, the dockhand answered, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

As we approached a large wood-log building, it started to snow. This was curious, as it had not rained even once since the sky went dark. Worried this was just more ash fall, I put out my palm and watched as questionable snowflakes melted instantly against my fingertips.

“Isn’t it a bit early for snow?” I asked.

“Eh,” answered Thrynn and the dockhand at the same time, both dismissing the supposition with a shrug. Thrynn shot the dockhand a smile, and then chuckled.

 

Isran was standing hunched over a desk in what must have been the jarl’s quarters. The room was nearly black but for a single candelabra on the desk.

“Ah, Dragonborn,” greeted the Redguard upon looking up. “Good to see you’re alive.”

The candlelight made the man’s silver eyes shimmer as his gaze shifted to my left, to Serana. Immediately upon recognizing her, Isran pulled his sword and advanced. Altanir was quick to put his body between the woman and certain death.

The excitement riled Krikit, who started to bark. Perhaps he was concerned for Serana, who was decidedly part of my pack.

I had completely forgotten about the anti-magic collar we had tossed somewhere near the fort, and about the promise we had made Isran to keep it on her. Serana may not have been concealing her identity with her magic well enough or at all. That, or Isran could see or sense a vampire through any illusion.

The stare-down between Altanir and his uncle lasted long enough to worry me that they were actually playing a lethal game of chicken. Both of them had a blade pressed against the other’s abdomen, though Altanir’s throwing dagger was decidedly shorter. I had before that moment forgotten that Isran held no particular fondness for Altanir, likely because of who, and what, my friend’s father was.

“Enough of this,” chided Serana before disintegrating into a puff of black smoke.

“Well,” said Thrynn, “that’s new.”

A breath later, Serana reappeared behind Isran. With one hand she gripped Isran’s sword arm and with the other his neck. She pressed a single sharpened fingernail into the man’s throat, hard enough to draw a trickle of blood.

“You will not harm Altanir,” she hissed into Isran’s ear.

Struggling, the man answered, “You cannot _fotrunar_ me.”

“No?” Serana pressed another fingernail into the man’s neck.

“Serana, stop,” Altanir demanded, quiet and calm, his heart obviously not wholly committed to begging for the life of his uncle.

One look between Altanir and Serana and the woman forcefully pushed herself away from the Dawnguard leader. As she walked around Isran, giving him a wide berth, she licked the man’s blood from her fingers and then grimaced, as if the blood held a bad taste.

Isran grumbled, and sheathed his sword. “Tell me you bring good news,” he said to me.

Arms folded across my chest, lips pursed to the side, I fought the truth that needed to be told. It didn’t take Isran long to understand my reaction to his request.

“Damn it,” he muttered and stomped his way back to the desk. He pressed his palms to the edge and leaned forward, face hovering over a large map with small items placed across the country.

“The Telvanni are not threatened by the clouded sun,” I related. “Their leader refused to help. But I have a friend who is Telvanni. She was there, and stayed there after I left. She will try to convince them to help.”

“Certainly the mages were not our only hope,” said Neriwen.

A low growl sounded from Isran’s throat. “We have an army. That’s for sure. But I fear without stronger magic we will be defenseless.”

“Have you been to Winterhold?” I asked, suddenly reminded about the threat of starvation of the icy town’s inhabitants.

“I haven’t, but my troops have. The townspeople and mages are safe inside the College, behind a ward. I don’t know how they have enough magic to power that kind of protection, but they do.”

“And food?” I persisted.

“They’re fine. We brought supplies, but they have been living off of frozen food and fish, and they’ve been growing things underground.”

Fish. I had forgotten about fish. The entire town was lined by ocean, and while I lived at the college we often ate seafood. Aside from possible overfishing, I had worried for nothing.

“Underground gardens?” Neriwen asked.

“Some magical light helps plants to grow,” I related to her. “I’ve seen it at the college in Winterhold. The Telvanni are doing the same.”

“Clever,” said Isran. “Well,” the man sighed and planted his fists on his hips, “you might as well make your way to Winterhold. I sent some of my mages there to teach the students what they know of—” he lifted his gaze to Serana “—magic strong against vampires. Once my generals tell me the people are ready, I’ll bring my troops up from Riften, and we’ll move in on Windhelm.”

“Windhelm?” I repeated, confused. “Is Torug there?”

“We have no idea where Torug is,” Isran confirmed. “But Windhelm is conveniently located between the eastern north and south, and is a major port. We need it. And, we can use it to learn more about attacking a fortified city filled with vampires. Try to avoid another Markarth incident.”

“Were other cities taken?” I asked.

“No, but if we can take a city, we can take a castle.”

I turned to Serana, who retained a blank expression.

“Alright,” I said, “we will go to Winterhold in the morning.”

. . . . . .

The journey to Winterhold was planned to take two days of hard riding. We would camp inside an inland lighthouse – why it was inland, no one knew – and reach the college grounds late the following night.

Two Dawnguard soldiers led the way, which I was thankful for, except for the fact that they refused to wait for me when we passed by a dead mammoth that had been frozen into what I assumed was at one point a glacier; it had since begun to break apart. The soldiers related that the mammoth had been like that for years, half of its body mummified from exposure to sun and the cold weather, and the other half still embedded in ice. I examined it on horseback for as long as I could before the soldiers left my line of sight. Not one of my companions understood my fascination.

The path initially took us up into the mountains east of Dawnstar, across what can only be described as a field of ice chunks and boulders. Finally, we crossed a portion of the northern shore and passed through a colony of highly territorial walrus-like beasts called _hjoremen_ that terrified our horses and chased us for about five minutes. From there, it was only an hour or so before the ruins of old Winterhold, and the glow from the ward around the college, came into view.

As we rode our horses slowly up a narrow cliffside path toward a standalone stone archway supporting nothing but itself, a sense of unsettlement came over me. A knot in my stomach clenched ever tighter, urging me to stop, to turn back. I jerked my horse’s reins, eliciting a squeal from the poor creature. He thankfully stopped walking, and I rubbed his neck to apologize.

“Problem?” one of the soldiers asked from ahead.

“There’s something wrong,” I answered. “I can feel it.”

The soldier looked forward, peered at what she could from her mount, and then turned back to me. “There is nothing.”

Serana dismounted, and I followed suit. She continued to walk forward, but I clutched at her arm, holding her back. Holding her gaze, I slowly shook my head, and turned forward again.

I closed my eyes and breathed out, “ _Laas yah nir_.”

My senses were flooded with information. I attempted to ignore the signatures from the six other people and seven horses in search for something else beyond the stone ruins. When I opened my eyes I saw no unexpected red halos aside from what my senses told me was a fox. But the red aura radar had a distance limit. Something could still lie ahead.

“Well?” the other soldier asked. “What is it?”

Gripping my horse’s reigns and drawing Dawnbreaker from her sheath, I took tentative steps forward. “I don’t know. Something is here. Near. But I can’t see it.”

“Ghosts, maybe,” said Thrynn. “A lot of people died here, years ago.”

“A lot of people died everywhere, Thrynn,” Neriwen rationalized. “I’ve never seen any ghosts.”

“I’ve seen a ghost,” I muttered, half-listening as I pressed on ahead of the soldiers.

In that moment it occurred to me that I had never told Thrynn about Siv’s ghost, and her predicament. She was not where she was supposed to be, whatever that meant. Perhaps her soul had been sent to Nord Hell instead of Nord Heaven. Perhaps all was well now that the Eye of Magnus was closed and not being abused by the Thalmor. I supposed I would never know.

The world was quiet and still. Snow crunched beneath our feet, and a gentle, cold ocean breeze kissed our skin. The dimmed sunset had disappeared entirely, and for sight we now relied entirely on a few torches and Magelight. No one seemed to notice that my spell power had increased since before I left the fort, but the one Dawnguard battlemage had cast an orb of light half the size and brightness of my own, confirming my fear that magic was still weak for most people. I still hadn’t told my friends about the magic-regenerating mask I carried in my knapsack.

We passed under the archway without issue. As much as I had expected it to happen, nothing jumped out at us, attacked us, or even made a sound. There was nothing, which made no sense at all.

“Come on,” the battlemage said. “There is nothing here, and I’m exhausted. Let’s—”

The woman was rushed by a dark shadow, knocked from her horse and pushed several meters into a snowdrift. By the time I felt the vampire’s presence, the soldier’s blood already painted the snow red.

Chaos erupted in every direction. Horses squealed and galloped in various directions. Magic flew across the small, ruin-lined battlefield. A body smashed into the archway we had passed under, causing the already-damaged structure to topple.

I heard the familiar sounds of Neriwen laughing as her arrows found their targets, of Serana snarling and tearing at her attackers, and of Thrynn and Altanir grunting as they wielded their weapons.

A vampire, gangly and naked, lunged at me with talons twice the length of Serana’s long, sharpened fingernails. Its body fell directly onto the pointy end of Dawnbreaker, which set the vampire on fire. An easy kill, but I sensed more danger around us.

“ _Tiid klo ul!_ ”

At a vastly slowed speed, Krikit moved in front of me, darting somewhere to the left. Neriwen had ditched her bow in favor of two enchanted daggers, one of which was enchanted with a fire spell. Altanir was covered in dark vampire blood, not his own, and was mid-swing at a vampire’s neck. Serana was round-house kicking a vampire in the face. And through the chaos, Thrynn was making his way to me.

I cast Stoneflesh on myself and readied Dawnbreaker. Watching the others fight in these close-quarters, I knew I couldn’t use any other Shout. Friendly fire was too likely. The best I could do would be to keep time slowed as I cut my way through the vampire ambush.

Thrynn reached my side. His expression was twisted, as if confused by something. Perhaps he was seeing me move several times faster than he and the others were. I couldn’t recall if this was a first for him.

The Shout was ending, and time around me was gaining pace. As I inhaled to renew the dragon spell, a vampire lunged at me and Thrynn. The ex-bandit turned, accepting the blow on his back instead of his front. His body bumped against mine at full speed, and the two of us toppled over.

“ _Tiid!_ ” I roared, having no more breath for the rest of the Shout. Thrynn shrunk away from the sound and was again confused at the resulting effects, this time joining me in watching the rest of the world scramble about in slow-motion.

“Everyone!” I shouted. “To me!” Quickly, I sheathed Dawnbreaker and reached into my knapsack, pulled out the mask, and put it on. The surge of energy hit me once more, though far less remarkably than before. As expected, my sight through the mask’s eyelets was of an electrified blue world.

While the others fought their way to me, I cast a spell I had not attempted since my time in Yrsarald’s cave – a circle of protection, warding specifically against the undead. The golden magic flowed swiftly outward in all directions, ignoring the bodies of my friends and slamming into incoming vampires with the force of a runaway train. Several of the impacted vampires burst into flames, while others were merely stunned.

Time quickly synchronized, but my magical energies felt stronger than ever. The spell held.

“What the fuck was that?” Neriwen called. I could hear her huffing. “And what’s on your face?”

“It’s a mask,” I answered plainly. “It helps my magic.”

“What did you do!?” cried a woman outside of the magical circle.

Serana. I had completely forgotten about Serana.

Altanir called out her name and left the circle of protection, sword ready to defend any attack. I silently chastised myself for not realizing the spell could have _killed_ Serana, who despite not being hostile was still undead. Thankfully she appeared to be unharmed, but that wasn’t the point.

“Look!” said Thrynn, pointing to the side. A vampire hurled herself at the boundary magic and was then thrust away, squealing as her arm caught on fire.

“End the spell, Red!” Altanir demanded.

“I can’t!” I attested in earnest. If I stopped casting the spell, the advancing vampires would reach the rest of us.

Altanir fought off several more vampires while Serana recovered. Eventually the woman stood. And then, she was gone. Again she startled us with this new magic.

Altanir took the opportunity to re-enter the circle.  

“You could have killed her!” he snarled into my face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you!?” He turned from me, sword hanging low at his side. “Sometimes I don’t know who it is that I speak to. You,” he turned back around, “or a Daedra obsessed with killing the undead.”

“It was a mistake, Altanir!”

“I am fine,” a calm voice spoke from behind me. Serana had reappeared within the circle. She was standing in a half-crouch, arms thrust out at each side – a stance gymnasts took when sticking a landing. “My flesh will heal,” she added as she stood straight.

“How many do you think there are?” asked Thrynn.

“At least a dozen have fallen,” answered Neriwen.

“ _Laas yah nir!_ ” The Shout took several breaths to give me an answer. Nine vampires were still alive. Unalive. This did not include Serana. We were outnumbered, but not defenseless.

The Magelight orbs I had cast faded. Our only light source became the golden circle that surrounded us. But the auras of the vampires glowed bright, and through the magic of Miraak’s mask I could anticipate their movements, somewhat.

“There are nine vampires left,” I related to my companions. “My magic is strong. All we need to do is wait them out – let them injure themselves against the ward, and kill them when we can. Neriwen, use your bow to—”

A shriek sounded from above, and before I could look up the vampire was on me, legs wrapped around my torso and hands clamped onto my head. The vampire and I along with her were yanked backward as someone futilely tried to pull her off of me. My mask fell off and my spell ended. After an impact that pushed me forward a step, I fell backward and was on my back on the cold, wet ground. The vampire had been cleaved nearly in two by Thrynn’s axe.

I looked up at the Nord beside me. He was completely covered in dark blood.

Sounds of combat drew my attention elsewhere. Altanir and Serana killed three more vampires. Neriwen put an arrow in another. I turned back to Thrynn, who reached out to me and we helped each other stand.

“Four more!” I shouted at him as I reached for Dawnbreaker, thankfully still at my side. Quickly, I shot several small orbs of Magelight around the area.

Neriwen landed an arrow in another vampire’s eye.

Three more.

Dawnbreaker took the arm, then the head of another vampire, setting off a blast of purple magic meant to injure and scare off other nearby undead.

Two more.

Altanir and Serana made their way to me and Thrynn, and Neriwen followed soon after.

“That,” said Altanir, “that was rough.”

“The soldiers are dead,” Neriwen noted. “One…,” she said, grabbing her throat and catching her breath, “the other was crushed.”

I nodded, assuming that was the case. “There’s still two more vampires,” I said. “I can feel them.”

“I sense them, too,” Serana confirmed.

The world fell silent but for the sound of our exerted breaths. Our horses were gone. Krikit, I could only hope, would find me eventually.

“ _Laas_ ,” I whispered, hoping to see the remaining vampires’ auras, or perhaps the horses’ or Krikit’s. I did not.

“The vampires aren’t here,” I told the others. “But they move fast. They could come back.”

“Then let’s get to the College before they return,” Altanir suggested. Looking behind him briefly, he then added, “They can send someone to get the soldiers.”

I nodded at him and conferred with the others. All agreed, we set off at a quick pace through the ruins, toward the glow of the college’s massive ward.

 

The path ahead needed no Magelight. Snow glowed bright blue, reflecting the ward that stood between the town of Winterhold and the bridge that led to the college. Thankfully, from what I could see, the bridge was still intact.

I wondered if I was still immune to wards. Could I pass unharmed through this barrier?

“Is someone coming to let us in?” asked Thrynn as I pondered which appendage to test my immunity on.

“When I was here before,” I said, “I walked through their ward. It did nothing to me. But I worry it’s different, now.” I turned back to Thrynn. “But someone came outside to greet me, then. Maybe they will come get us.”

“Hmph.” Thrynn smirked. “I hope so.”

I returned the man’s expression. Though the front of him was completely painted black with vampire blood, the man was hopeful. His positive attitude toward battle, both glory and gore, was impressive. How very Nord of him.

And then I sensed them again, the vampires. The overwhelming dread came on quickly, without any other warning. I opened my mouth to ready a Shout, but before air from my lungs could pass my lips, I felt a cold, wet sting pierce the flesh of my neck, followed by a shock of electricity.

The attack ended as quickly as it began. The pain on my neck vanished. The weight of someone holding me from behind vanished. And as everyone stared at me, a pale vampire materialized in the space between me and Thrynn. Bright red blood spewed to the snow-covered ground, and an instant later Serana had her hands on the vampire’s head and ripped it clear off.

I watched as the vampire’s body fell limp into a puddle of light and dark red. And then, slowly, Thrynn fell to his knees, clutching the side of his neck. I shot over to him, leaping over the decapitated vampire along the way, and immediately cast healing magic onto the grievously bleeding laceration.

The ex-bandit’s terrified and vibrant hazel eyes pleaded with me, and his trembling, blood-stained hand grasped my shoulder. But a moment later, cradled in my arms, Thrynn died smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fotrunar – compel  
> Hjoremen - horkers
> 
> “Tiid klo ul” – Slow Time  
> “Laas yah nir” – Aura Whisper


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme music for the first scene: “The North Remembers” GOT soundtrack. 
> 
> When you get to the part with the song, its inspiration is “I Will Wait” by Mumford & Sons. Following that, listen to the cover of that song by 2Cellos for all the feels.

I couldn’t bear to close Thrynn’s eyes. They weren’t the first I had seen in this world, but they were the first eyes I remembered. Concerned eyes. Kind eyes. Behind all the hypersexual comments and dirty jokes was a decent man. His death, his shredded throat, could have been avoided. I should have sensed the attack coming.

Instead of closing his eyes, I brushed aside rogue tresses that, wet with blood, clung to his nose. With my thumb, I wiped clean two parallel, horizontal lines on either cheek, mimicking the look he bore when I first met him. That day he had painted his face with blood; now, I drew designs in the blood covering his face.

“Hey, Red?” called Altanir, softly. “Can you hear me?”

Looking up at the tall man hurt my neck, and I lowered my gaze back to Thrynn. “Yes.”

“Are you… are you alright?” I heard movement to my left, and then felt Altanir’s huffing breath after he crouched down. “Do you, eh, have any desire to… eat… blood?”

It took a moment for Altanir’s words to sink in, and then my face scrunched at the notion. “No. What do you—why would you ask me that?” I thought I should stand. I thought I should clean my hands, and attempt to use the snow to clean my armor. I was absolutely covered in blood, both human and vampire. But I couldn’t turn away from Thrynn. I felt obliged to remain where I was by his side, to memorize this scene, the tableau of his death. His death that was absolutely my fault.

Tentative approaching footsteps crunched the snow to my right. “You were bitten, Deb,” said Neriwen.

“Bitten?” I asked, turning to the elf.

Neriwen crouched down and reached out toward the right side of my neck. “I can see the marks,” she said before her fingertips touched two places, paining me slightly and causing me to flinch.

Instinctively my hand shot to my neck, covering whatever was hurting. My hands like the rest of me were already dark with blood. I couldn’t assess if I was bleeding. But I could feel welts, two bumps the size of horsefly bites, but indented in the center. They both stung and throbbed, and I cast a healing spell immediately.

“I… was bitten,” I confirmed, looking to Neriwen and then Serana. “Does that mean…?”

“I do not sense the change in you,” Serana said. “There is more to making a vampire than a simple bite. And your scent is the same as before.”

Serana’s expression was as neutral as ever. “You would smell it?” I asked, “if I was… if I….”

“Yes, Deborah. I would smell it.”

“So would I,” said Altanir. “Probably.”

I ended the healing spell and felt my neck again. The bumps were more rounded now, like boils, and far less painful.

“I thought, thought I felt something,” I mumbled, “right before Thrynn….” I turned briefly to the fallen man, who continued to gaze at the black sky.

“But the pain stopped quickly,” I continued. “I felt a cold pinch, then a shock like lightning, and then nothing.” I looked around the small battleground which glowed blue from the ward and reflecting snow. “Where is it? The vampire.” The decapitated body of the vampire that attacked Thrynn lay right beside my dead friend, but there was no second body.

“It… turned to dust,” Altanir explained. I looked to him, and he gestured behind Serana, to where I had been standing before Thrynn was attacked.

I walked across the trodden snow until I saw what Altanir was gesturing towards.

A small area, spread out behind where I had been standing when I was attacked, glittered more than the rest of the snow. Looking closely, the substance was not white, but grey or silver. I crouched down to touch the substance and smoothed it between my thumb and two fingers. It was soft, very much like dust, or what crushed moths left behind. My fingertips afterwards sparkled as if painted with modern silver eyeshadow.

Vampire dust.

“When did it turn to dust?” I asked, standing.

“Immediately after biting you,” said Altanir.

“The vampire appeared,” Neriwen added, “bit you, and then—” She mimed an explosion and made a _poof!_ sound.

Confused, I look to my three remaining companions. “Why?” I asked any of them. “Why would it turn to dust?”

They were silent. And then, Serana took a step toward me. “Do you truly not know?” she asked.

Her gaze was stone, and fixed upon me. But my eyes flitted to either side of her, to Altanir and Neriwen. Judging by their expectant expressions, they were just as uninformed as I was.

“Know… what?” I asked Serana.

The vampire took several more steps forward. “Your blood,” she said. “Even while I was, as you might say, half-dead, I could smell it. I could smell the magic in you, in your blood.”

“Well, that—that’s nothing new,” I claimed. “My partner once told me I smelled like magic. Well, no. Like lightning, he said.”

Serana lifted her chin as if to perform half a nod. She said nothing.

Eyeing Serana, I said, “Are you… are you saying I have magic in my blood? Lightning magic?”

The vampire blinked, tilted her head somewhat, and folded her arms across her chest. Only then did I notice the tattered rags that used to be one of her loaned robe’s sleeves. It appeared charred. I couldn’t recall when that had happened, but it must have been recent. Perhaps she had been scorched by the circle of protection spell.

A memory crossed my mind’s eye of Serana, shriveled and half-dead in Isran’s torture chamber, groaning and refusing to drink my blood.

_Ni. Nik di. Ni._ Ancient Nordic for “No. Not you. No.”

My gaze locked to Serana’s. “You knew.” I stepped toward her. “You knew I was—that I had….” I looked down at my blood-painted wrists as if I could study my own blood pumping within. “What am I?” I whispered.

“You claim your goddess speaks to you,” said Serana. “You claim she is inside of you, inside your mind. And, yet, your goddess seems to tell you nothing of yourself.” Serana dropped her arms to her sides and walked forward. “Your blood, Dragonborn, is a weapon. I smelled it immediately. I knew that if I had tasted your blood, I would have suffered for it.”

My heart was pounding into my ears as Serana continued to speak. She stood at a breath’s distance from me and all I could hear was a pending panic attack.

“Wait,” I said, nearly breathless. “Repeat yourself, please.” This time, as Serana spoke, I made it a point to follow her lips’ every movement, absorb every word.

“This Light of which you have spoken,” she said, “the Light of Meridia, it is in your blood. Any vampire that tastes you will be poisoned or destroyed, turned to dust.” She nodded behind me, to the silvery expanse of snow.

“Destroyed,” I repeated. “I’m….” My lips parted, awaiting my lungs to power the words. “I’m a… weapon. A weapon.”

“It makes sense,” Altanir said, stepping toward us. “I knew something was different about your scent. I thought it was just the Dragonborn thing, but….”

Neriwen stepped up to me, carrying Miraak’s mask. “You dropped this,” she said, handing the golden artifact to me. I took it from her, an automatic movement, and proceeded to stare into the visage. “What kind of mask is that?” she asked.

I took a moment to answer. “It… helps with magic. Frea found it. Torug—Torug had it, killed…. Torug had it. It’s mine, now. It chose me. Called to Frea. Called to me.”

I continued to stare at the mask, into what looked to me more and more like the face of Meridia. “It chose me,” I breathed.

A palm cupped my shoulder, and another pressed against my upper back.

“We should, eh, take care of Thrynn,” said Altanir. “I don’t think burial is an option.”

After clearing the lump from my throat, I answered, “It isn’t. We burned the dead, when I was a student here.”

Altanir nodded several times. “Alright. We need wood.”

“I will find wood,” Serana offered quietly, smoothing her hand across Altanir’s chest before disappearing in a blur.

 

Serana brought back more than just firewood. In a matter of minutes, she had collected the two fallen Dawnguard soldiers and assembled a large pyre faster than any of us could have in an hour.

A single dragon word set the pyre aflame. We had no liquor to accelerate the cremation, but apparently vampire blood was plenty flammable. The funeral lit up the small battleground, highlighting the dance of footprints and blood spatter even more than the light from the ward had.

I had seen too many funeral pyres since coming to Skyrim, and this was the second time I had to personally cremate a friend who died because of me. I experienced Ingjard’s death anew, and fought the tears that pooled and threatened to wash the blood from my face.

Everyone was quiet after the fire was started. Normally, eulogies of a sort were spoken or songs were sung in honor of the fallen, but we were all shaken. We also did not know the two fallen soldiers very well. We knew their names, and their jobs. That was it.

“Her name was Nevi,” I said, “and she was a battlemage with the Dawnguard.”

“To Nevi,” Neriwen called out. Altanir repeated her. Serana remained silent.

“And his name was Hron. He was a soldier with the Dawnguard.”

“To Hron,” Neriwen and Altanir said in unison.

And then, a bark.

Startled, I turned around to see Krikit, completely unscathed, furiously wagging his poofy tail and butt along with it, barking excitedly at me.

“Krikit!” I cried. “Come!”

Convinced it was safe, the dog bounded forward and jumped up against me. His forepaws settled on my abdomen and he tried in earnest to lick my chin. Being covered in blood, I had to refuse. He settled for a little dance and awkward head ruffles.

Once his greeting was completed, Krikit calmed down and trotted over to the others to sniff their hands and, no doubt, check on their livelihood. When he had greeted us all he looked at me expectantly, and sat down in the space between me and the funeral pyre.

I wondered if Krikit was waiting for Thrynn, who in particular had taken a liking to the dog. Unfortunately, Krikit didn’t seem to smell the man who lay burning behind him.

“His name was Thrynn,” I said as loudly as I could, though choking on the words. “And he was the first friend I had in this world.” I sniffled, and continued. “He was an ass. He did some stupid things, but….” I cleared my throat. “He saved my life. He saved me from….” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Servitude? Gang rape? What would have happened to me had Garthek and his thugs had their way with me?

“He saved me,” I concluded, and wiped the snot from my nose with my sleeve. “To Thrynn.”

“To Thrynn!” my companions cried.

“Big ugly _lotskep’_ ,” Neriwen said, quietly adding, “gonna fucking miss you.”

When there were no more words to say, I turned toward the ward. “I’m going to find someone inside,” I said. No protests heard, I walked forward. With the little finger of my left hand stuck out, I pushed my hand forward.

And felt nothing. I pushed the rest of my hand, wrist, and arm beyond the ward wall, and felt nothing but air.

“I’ll be right back,” I called behind me, and stepped through the wavering blue magic.

Past the ward and at the main entrance there was no one to greet me. When I had first arrived, Faralda had rushed out to interrogate me on how I had passed the ward, why the arrival signals were lit. As I crossed the bridge, the signals once again acknowledged my presence, letting out a small burst of blue, glowing mist. I figured someone would see the signal, and I waited.

And I waited.

Without using my Shout I could sense life inside. The main gate was locked, however, and I knew no spell that could unlock it.

There was, however, a Shout. I knew two words, thanks to Kyne, that could move rocks and form a bridge out of them.

Why not manipulate a lock?

Concentrating on the section of the gate where the latch was, I breathed deep and blurted, “ _Gol hah!_ ”

The metal gate did not move. Pushing on it proved that the lock held.

Sighing, I resorted to force. “ _Fus!_ ”

The gate jolted as if pounded by a battering ram, but the lock held firm.

“Damn it!” I hissed.

“Deborah?” called a gentle voice from inside the college grounds. A short, older woman stepped out of the shadows. Mirabelle Ervine.

“Oh, Mirabelle. Thank the gods. Can you part the ward? I have friends waiting beyond the bridge.”

“I can,” she said as she used an unconventional, round key to unlock the gate. “You’re… covered in blood, Deborah.”

“I know. I know, I’m—vampires. We were attacked, just now. There were…” I looked toward the glow of the funeral pyre. “Two Dawnguard soldiers were killed. I need to tell someone, so they can tell Isran. Is there a courier here?”

“Yes, at least one, I believe. How many others are with you?”

“Four,” I answered incorrectly. “Ah-h, three. We….” I rubbed my forehead. “Three. And a dog.”

“A dog.”

“Yes. My dog. I hope that’s alright.”

“Yes, yes,” she said through a sigh as she started down the bridge.

. . . . . .

Disappointingly, the enchanted shower in the college was not functional. It took too much energy to purify the water, apparently. But the four of us were able to take much needed very warm baths, and our clothing was taken to be cleaned. In the meantime we wore spare unenchanted mage’s robes, much to Altanir’s dismay. Serana had a mind to keep her robe as it was in far better shape than what the Dawnguard had given her. She still wanted something more “appropriate” though, whatever that meant.

As I scrubbed dried blood from under my stubby fingernails, I thought of Thrynn, cremating before the base of the college bridge. In the morning I would check on the fire, which would likely by then have burned out. I didn’t know what to do with the ashes, afterwards. Leave them be? Toss them into the sea? Someone would know. Perhaps someone from the Dawnguard would have their own requests. Perhaps we should have waited before burning the soldiers. If we hadn’t waited, however, I had no doubt wolves would have torn at their bodies. Few people would have approved of that.

 

Cleaned, dried, and experiencing flashbacks to my previous stint at the college, I made my way to the dining hall, trying not to faint from hunger and exhaustion along the way. My companions came with me, excluding Krikit who was left in the safety of the courtyard as demanded by Mirabelle.

The campus was deserted, and I knew everyone was in the main building where the dining hall was. I could feel them, a welcoming livelihood that beckoned me forward.

Walking up the spiral steps, I began to hear fast, cheerful music. It wasn’t unusual for someone at the college to sing while others dined. I recalled Lienne, a mage killed when we returned to Saarthal, spending some evenings playing a sort of flute. Sometimes Osana, Elodie’s deceased wife, sang along. After those women died, not many people wanted to serenade their fellow mages, but every once in a while one could hear the humming of instructors Drevis or Nirya echoing down the stone corridors.

With the town itself completely vacant, I figured everyone had fled to the college towers, preferring the safety of strong magical wards and fortified stone walls. Perhaps a bard who had resided in the local inn had taken it upon himself to entertain the citizens of Winterhold, and perhaps some refugees from Dawnstar, too. Perhaps Bird’s family was here.

I pushed open the door to the dining hall and was momentarily stunned by the dense throng within. I kept moving forward though, allowing those behind me to enter, too.

People looked our way but quickly turned back around to return their attention to whatever bard played in the sunken center of the circular hall. Because of the tiered layout I couldn’t see beyond the outer ring of onlookers. They were all happy and smiling, and many were clapping along. Others sat and enjoyed their meal while listening. So far, I recognized no one. But that was not surprising. I didn’t know every single mage student, nor did I know everyone who called the north home.

The concert was, from what I could tell, comprised of lute, flute, and drum, with one male lead singer. The tune itself was lively, with incredibly fast staccato lute rhythms overlaid by slow, sweet flute airs that matched the singer’s cadence. The drum alternated between fast and slow beats as the song’s sentiments changed.

The lyrics sang about waiting for someone, of forgiveness and forgetting, and living a simple life. When the beat really picked up, a female voice joined in on what must have been the choral verse. _I will wait. I will wait. I will wait for her._ I always had a bit of trouble understanding sung Norren, but as the years progressed I picked up phrases more easily. This song was very easy to understand.

I craved to watch the bards as they performed. I wanted to admire what must have been impressively agile finger work of the lute player. And, mostly, I was curious if any of the performers were people I knew. But the crowd was too thick, too tall, and I wasn’t about to shove anyone out of my way.

I spotted an unused table, checked its sturdiness and, satisfied it would hold my weight, cleared off a space and stepped onto the surface via one of the chairs.

The moment my gaze breached the crowd, the music quieted and calmed. The drummer stopped drumming with his palms and instead tapped with his fingers. The flautist lowered her flute and instead hummed in harmony to the singer. The lute player, with his back to me, strummed slowly, intermittently, and sang soft and low.

The lyrics went on to speak of being brave and strong, and to thinking things through as well as allowing the heart to express itself. It was a very good song, much better than the oft-recited ditties that bards usually sang. This song was original, unique.

I thought perhaps the lute player’s voice sounded familiar. The man was tall, muscular, and bald, but there were a lot of those types in Skyrim. But still, something about the man’s voice and stature tugged at my memory.

As the tempo and volume slowly gained, the beating of my heart quickened with the drum.

_I’ll wait for now._

It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

_I’ll find myself._

Could it?

With a hoot and a heavy strum, the music returned to a furious pace. The lute player turned around to gaze at my side of the hall, and I found myself staring, awed and befuddled, at the grinning face of Stenvar.

As the song went on, lyricless at the moment, the man nodded and bowed his head at audience members while strutting a few slow paces. He clearly recognized a few people in the inner circle. He didn’t even have to think about his lute; his fingers had minds of their own, each shifting and picking too quickly for the eyes to follow.

Stenvar.

Singing. Happy. _Alive._

Finally, he noticed the crazy woman on the table. The sight of me didn’t click at first, his delightful grin remaining. But then his gaze rose to my face. My slack-jawed, dazed and confused face. His fingers faltered for a beat but quickly recovered. But his expression, now wide-eyed and amazed, held until just before he turned away.

My lungs took in a long, ragged breath after being momentarily paralyzed.

Stenvar regained his grin. He bowed before the flautist in time to the rhythm as the lyrics began again with what must have been the refrain. His voice, a robust and lofty baritone, reverberated around the room.

_Tilba regen  
Par ha golla sil_

The man practically pranced around the small area before turning back to me, all the while singing. I couldn’t help but laugh at his antics.

_Heita par sul  
Eigna min’ vaen_

_Praise the gods for her golden soul_ , the lyrics said. _Pray for daylight; keep my hopes_.

Heart thumping and breath heaving, and smiling so much that my cheeks hurt, I wondered if this song was something Stenvar had written. Was it new? Had he written it after the sky went dark?

Was it about me?

_I will wait. I will wait. I will wait for her_. The choral verse repeated again and again, more joyous each time. The drummer mirrored Stenvar’s wide grin, and Stenvar once again smiled at and acknowledged the crowd.

Stenvar’s fingers danced from fret to fret and along each string. I had heard the man sing and play before, but never had I seen him display such obvious veteran skill.

Still in shock, I remained on the table even after the song came to a close and the audience cheered and applauded.

The bards bowed again. Stenvar spoke something into the flautist’s ear and then turned in my direction. The crowd parted, allowing him an exit. I remained on the table, unable to control my limbs.

And then there he was, staring up at me, clearly amused. While holding the lute by its neck, Stenvar offered me his free hand. A nudge on my left calf from someone shook me out of my daze, and I lowered my hand to Stenvar’s.

With his arm and body, my sellsword friend caught my half-stumble from the chair and held me there until I was able to right myself.

Through the acrobatics, my eyes never left his. They couldn’t. I wouldn’t let them. This man before me, previously assumed dead, was not only alive but _thriving_. For fear this was a dream I dared not look away, not until I heard the man speak my name, pinch my flesh, slap my face, do _something_ to prove that this was real.

Stenvar moved slightly to the side to rest the lute on the table I had stood on. He then raised both of his hands to cup my shoulders, to hold me still, to study me, my expression, my eyes. Perhaps he, too, was convinced he was dreaming. Perhaps he was shocked by my scars. Perhaps he simply needed to absorb this incredible moment as much as I did.

My gaping mouth cracked a smile as I gave breath to a nervous half-laugh. My right hand gravitated to the man’s face, grazing the pink scar left by magical frostbite. The corners of the man’s eyes crinkled as his smile broadened. He, too, must have been at a loss for words. After one delicate brush of my cheek with his hand, Stenvar pulled me in for a hug so tight my already failing breath was further compromised.

This was happening. This was real. Stenvar was not dead, and I was holding him in my arms, feeling his heart pound against my ear. My tears were unavoidable, a release of all the emotions I had bottled up upon leaving Fort Dawnguard, and of all the emotions experienced since. I found myself shaking against him, only prompting an even tighter embrace from his strong arms.

“ _Ra, ra,_ sweetheart,” he lulled in a gravelly voice, breathing further gentle, comforting sounds.

Music once again filled my ears. A flute and some other instrument. The melody seemed mid-phrase – I hadn’t noticed when the bards had begun to play. The crowd and their ambient din were then noticeable, overpowering some of Stenvar’s whispers.

My fingertips dug into the man’s simple tunic, refusing to release. _Never again_ , I told myself. _Never again will I ignore you. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me._

“Come on,” Stenvar rasped into my ear. “Let’s find somewhere quiet.”

With that, I backed away, hand automatically traveling to my cheeks to wipe away my tears. Stenvar leant his own thumb to the task, ignoring his own tear-streaked face. He grasped one of my hands, collected his lute, and led me away from the crowd and out of the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts?
> 
> _lotskep’ = lotskepin = oaf/brute (great big creature)_  
>  _Ra = calm_
> 
> \- Bend Will: Gol Hah (Dov), Earth Mind (Dragon)  
> \- Unrelenting Force: Fus Ro Dah, Force Balance Push
> 
>    
> art by [anafigreen](anafigreen.tumblr.com):  
> 


	25. Chapter 25

Stenvar led me into the main space before the dining hall entrance. I stopped to shut the heavy door, gently, quietly, watching the crowd slowly disappear behind a narrowing slit. When I turned I saw Stenvar had kept walking, had turned left toward the stairs and the curved path down, but stopped. He must have realized I was not following. My hands were behind my body, glued to the door handles. Half-hidden by the stone staircase wall, Stenvar peered at me a moment, perhaps confused. Finally, slowly, he turned back, but stopped midway in the center of the roundish foyer. Multiple sconces supporting fist-sized flames made him glow like bronze. Perhaps I glowed, too.

“I thought you were dead,” I said, barely, inhaling sharply after the end of the sentence as if the word ‘dead’ took my breath away.

The festive crowd behind the door was surely more audible, but the Stenvar’s reaction confirmed I had been heard.

Stenvar’s fingers, wrapped around the lute’s neck, held in front of his torso, flourished in a sequential wave, reinforcing their grip.

“Heh,” he breathed through a half-smile as he bowed his head. The smile faded quickly. “Yeah.” He still didn’t look at me. He looked at his lute. “I suppose a lot of people think their… think others died. No way to know. No couriers. Except the Dawnguard, but they don’t send personal letters.” He looked at me. “Why would you think I was dead? The gods ‘ave no use for me. Shor knows I’ve given ‘im enough chances!” He laughed, chest heaving and eyes crinkled. The joke, if it was a joke, fell flat on the cold stone floor between us, and the din of the diners filled the silence.

“I had a dream,” I began. “We were….” I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to share every detail. Not now. “We were someplace….” We were somewhere eternal. I didn’t know the Norren word for eternal. Did I?

“I tried to find you with magic,” I continued, “but there was nothing. And I… I found Honey.”

“We were someplace in a dream where you couldn’t find me and you found honey?”

I shook my head. “No,” I breathed. “I found _Honey_.”

Stenvar’s lute-bearing arm fell limp to his side. The instrument dangled dangerously. “You found my girl?” he asked, voice faltering.

I smiled a sad smile, on the verge of tears myself, and nodded.

Stenvar smoothed his free hand across his face. “Where?”

“The Rift,” I answered. “North of the city.”

“Where is she now?” He took a few steps toward me.

“Fort Dawnguard.”

He attempted a smile. “She’s alright?”

I nodded. “Last I knew.” And then, before I forgot, I added, “She had a colt.”

Stenvar’s eyes glistened. He smiled, and nodded, slowly, several times. He knew. “Yeah. She was already heavy with foal when I visited you in Riften. I didn’t wanna ride her anymore.” He rolled his shoulders and looked away. “Had to trade her.”

Shit. It was hard to imagine Stenvar parting with his beloved mare willingly.

I should have known that eventually someone would open the door I leaned against. I was jostled forward, pushed into Stenvar. I turned around to find a weary-looking Altanir and Neriwen. No Serana. The pair gawked at Stenvar and me for a moment before closing the hall doors behind them. They were each holding a wooden bowl.

“Hey,” said Neriwen to me, “we wondered where you went. There’s stew. Smells awful but better than nothing.”

Altanir rubbed his left eye. “We were told to sleep wherever there was space, in the dormitories.”

“Alright,” I acknowledged, and turned back to Stenvar, who had backed away from me a few steps. “I need… food,” I told him, and then chuckled for no reason.

“Ah, yeah.” Stenvar’s free hand cupped my shoulder and we turned back to the dining hall door. “You’re gonna hate the fish stew,” he said. And then, “Friends of yours?” meaning Altanir and Neriwen.

“Oh, sorry.” My hunger was eating my manners. “This is Altanir and Neriwen. We’ve been traveling together. This,” I said, hand upturned in front of the man’s chest, “is Stenvar.”

Altanir’s eyes went wide as he embraced Stenvar’s forearm. “So you’re the one Red punched a wall for.”

Neriwen’s cackling faded into the noisy dining hall, and Altanir followed her, smiling.

Stenvar, still at my side, said nothing. His raised eyebrows, however, begged explanation.

I looked down at my right hand, my punching hand, my arthritic hand, and studied the long-since healed knuckles. Looking back to Stenvar, I repeated, “I thought you were dead,” and re-entered the dining hall.

. . . . . .

We ate our dinner, just the two of us, in the quiet sanctuary of the library foyer, two levels below the rowdy dining hall. Or rather, I ate while Stenvar watched. Watched, and drank from a bottle of mead. They still had some mead left. He had already eaten his rationed meal, his serving of fish stew. Stenvar wasn’t lying; it was nearly inedible.

As I ate, as he drank, we caught each other up on our adventures.

Where he went after seeing me in Riften. When he last saw Brelyna and Jenassa. I saw them on Solstheim. When he last saw Selina in Whiterun, and even Sharash and Darius at the temple of Meridia. I asked about others in Whiterun; he didn’t know them. He sold his family property in Dragon Bridge before returning to Windhelm.

He was on the docks when the sky went dark. He was one of the lucky ones. The small boat was passable in the northern, icy sea. They made it to the shores below this college, and have been here since.

“We all thought….” Stenvar looked away from me. His mead was on the low table. He stared at an empty chair for a while, and then gave a light groan as he rubbed his forehead with forefinger and thumb.

“We all thought you’d died,” he said, looking at me. “When the sky went dark. Thought it was a sign that the World Eater had succeeded, eaten you, or….” He trailed off, looked at nothing. His gaze seemed distant. “I didn’t know, didn’t know until a few weeks ago, when some new Dawnguard people came ‘ere. I overhead them talkin’ about the Dragonborn. Had to confirm it was you, not the orc, not some other person.”

His eyes met mine again. Serious. Steady. Stone. That was what his name meant, in Old Norren. Stone Man.

I had been mid-chew on a chewy bit of boiled whitefish. Stenvar’s gaze was penetrating. Searing. I resumed chewing, and looked to my stew.

“Was it a boy, or a girl?” he asked.

I stopped chewing. I let the fish chunk fall back into the broth. I stared at the gnarled white mass.

“Boy,” I said, quiet, and looked up. “Virald,” I told him. And then, accusative, “You knew.” Of course he knew. Everyone had known. I was five months pregnant before I knew, or admitted to myself that I knew.

“Heh,” he half-chuckled, smirking and looking away. He bowed his head. “Of course I knew. Your friends told me, but I could see it. We didn’t wanna say anything to you. You were too—” he pressed his sprawled fingertips together “—too delicate, then.”

 _Apparently_ , I said to myself in anger, but then quickly cooled. Remorse settled in, instead. “I’m sorry I ignored you,” I said, locking my gaze onto his eyes. “I didn’t even say goodbye.”

Stenvar’s smile was receptive, sad. His eyes lowered briefly to my neck, and then he looked away. “It’s no worry,” he claimed, and reached for his mead. He took a sip. “Virald.” Another sip. “Good name.”

My smile was less sad, that time.

. . . . . .

Everyone was to sleep in the dormitories, all levels, on the floors, Stenvar told me. The lucky ones had bedrolls or old mattresses. The actual beds were reserved for the Dawnguard officers, and for the college instructors. Savos Aren was still here, but rarely left his quarters, high in the main building. That was normal for him.

The temperature had dropped considerably and I pulled my cloak tight around me. I wondered what hour-equivalent it was. Midnight? Later? I was half-asleep, walking. Stenvar walked closely at my side.

We just passed the huge mage statue in the center of the courtyard when excited barking reminded me that, yes, I had a dog and, yes, I had forgotten about him.

Krikit didn’t run up to me. Instead, he stood where he had been lying, barking in quick succession in the excited way, not the threatening or frightened way. His butt wagged behind him.

“Shit,” I said, “I should have gotten some food for him.”

“That’s yours?” he asked.

I smiled at Stenvar and walked up to the silver beast. “His name is Krikit. He found me on Solstheim.” I figured I would tell Stenvar that tale later. I had left out a lot of details, about my time on the island.

Krikit quieted as soon as I crouched down to hug him.

“Odd name,” Stenvar said, approaching. He leaned forward a bit, hand outstretched, fingers curved down, wrist limp. He was letting Krikit smell him, which the dog did. “Handsome fellow.”

He was, indeed.

“Mirabelle wants me to keep him in the courtyard.” I stood, and Krikit managed shallow hop. He wanted something. Probably food. “I’m going to go get him something to eat. Scraps, or something.”

“I’ll go,” Stenvar said, and was on his way back inside before I could protest.

 

We let Krikit finish his fish scraps and bits of bread and vegetables before heading into the same dormitory I had slept in while a student here. Despite Mirabelle’s demands, I took Krikit with me.

 _Rules are for fools_ , I said to myself. I was tired.

Stenvar had a bedroll, and had placed it in one of the common areas of the dormitory. Everyone tended to leave other people’s things alone, he told me. That was lucky, and surprising, I thought, though it hadn’t been much different in Riften or Fort Dawnguard.

My old bedroom door was closed. Someone, perhaps a Dawnguard officer, was asleep inside. Earlier, a part of me wondered if the instructors had kept the room unoccupied, pending my return. How arrogant of me.

The hall glowed bright blue, the constant hue emitted from the central magical font, likely a source of the college’s ward. I was never sure.

“You can have the bedroll,” said Stenvar, plopping himself down next to it with a grunt.

“I have thicker clothing than you do,” nodding at his linen shirt. “And this cloak. You’ll freeze on this stone.”

“ _Neh_ ,” he rasped, and made no more comments about the bedroll, or his comfort.

Perhaps his Nord blood didn’t mind the stone. Perhaps it was preferred. Perhaps he just felt he was doing me a favor, or being gentlemanly.

Nevertheless I removed my cloak and tossed it over the space like a quilt; it covered Stenvar’s lap. Spread out, the thing was just big enough for two people to lie on. Stenvar got the hint, and crawled onto the offered makeshift mattress. Indeed, the bear hide wasn’t all that thin, and, fur side up, it was warm.

There was a knapsack behind his bedroll that Stenvar grabbed and placed under his neck for a pillow. I followed suit, but hit the back of my head on the mask inside. I flipped the bag over.

Krikit weaseled into the marginal space between us. Stenvar gave him a scritch and a ruffle. The dog made the bed space even warmer.

Though most of the people in the hall were asleep, there were murmurings. I heard voices of adults as well as children, and an infant.

“How many people are here?” I whispered. “At the college, I mean.”

A sound rumbled in Stenvar’s throat. “Not sure. A couple hundred. Three or four, maybe? Not everyone was in the dining hall, just then. You arrived a bit late. There are people sleepin’, livin’ everywhere. A lot of people sleep in the practice hall. More sleep below that, in caverns, near the underground gardens. They keep those locked up, though.”

“Are people getting enough to eat? There were two hundred people, underground in Riften. We only had enough food for two months, I think.”

“I won’t lie. I’m always a bit hungry. Can’t be helped. The Dawnguard comes once in a while with fresh meat. Not much else. Some people take a boat out sometimes, look for bigger fish and other things. There was a vampire attack on a fishing group, once. They still go. They have to.”

I let his words sink in a moment, and then told him, “We were attacked, tonight.” I didn’t look at Stenvar, or wait for a reaction. “At the ruins outside of town. Then again, at the bridge. I was….” I stopped myself from mentioning the bite, for no reason I could understand. Stenvar was lying to the other side; he couldn’t see the marks. Perhaps he had already seen them.

“We lost people. My friend, two Dawnguard soldiers. It happened too fast. I should have seen it coming. I didn’t, not the second attack.”

“Even the gods couldn’t see this comin’,” Stenvar muttered, winning my gaze. “None of this. You can’t feel bad, about something like that.” A moment later, he added, “I’m sorry, about your friend.”

I eyed him a moment and then looked to the ceiling. I did feel bad about it, about Thrynn’s death, the soldiers’ deaths, about any deaths that occurred because of the vampires. I couldn’t help but feel it all on my shoulders.

Stenvar was wrong. The gods absolutely saw this coming, at least some of them, at least Meridia. I was a weapon. My blood was a weapon. Did it have to be a bite, that killed vampires? Could we coat a dagger or arrows in my blood and turn vampires into dust with one graze? What were the limits to this power that I have perhaps always had, since being remade here, yet only found out about an hour or so ago?

Why hadn’t Meridia told me?

“You should sleep,” said my sellsword friend before settling as best he could with a dog squeezed up against him. He had wadded something up at the small of his back.

I turned on my side, facing Stenvar and Krikit, giving them a bit more room. The dog laid his head on his paws. He looked content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the second act! I don't think there will be any particularly long wait for the next chapter. It's all in my head. Everything from here on out, save a couple battle scene specifics, has been written and rewritten in my head for about a year, now.
> 
> Anyway, I'm glad you all seem to be as excited as I am that Stenvar is back in the story. He's fun to write.


	26. Holy War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Heavy Stone” by Kyla La Grange

 

**— 3 —**

**HOLY WAR**

 

 

 

 

**Chapter 26**

The dormitory hall was still quiet when I woke up. For a moment, I thought I was once again in Riften, underground. But the warmth of a confined, occupied space was missing. There was no Flavia or Virald settled upon my abdomen, no Ash, Morgana, Bird, or Marcurio lying at either side. The loneliness was stark. It felt wrong.

My hand swept over the bear fur, unobstructed by a body, man or dog. Krikit and Stenvar were both gone.

I turned to look behind me and was immediately met by the invading face of Serana. Her unexpected closeness made me jump.

“Serana, what…?”

“You have slept for half of the day,” she said, hovering over me from her crouched position. In the moderate amount of inconsistent blue light from the center of the hall, I could see that she had changed her outfit to tight, black leather trousers and matching top. Her pale breasts were pushed up, as if the top had a built-in corset.

Someone here must have had a collection of clothing to trade. Or she or Neriwen stole it. Or perhaps Serana vampire-convinced the owner they no longer needed the leather outfit….

An emptiness in my stomach and fullness in my bladder confirmed Serana’s claim. It also explained why the dormitory was relatively empty. I scrambled to my feet and adjusted my rumpled mage’s robe.

“Where’s Krikit? And Stenvar?”

Serana eyed me a moment, and then said, “I do not know.” She stepped forward and grabbed my upper arm, almost menacingly. “Deborah, I must speak with you.”

I might have whimpered. “Now?”

“Yes, Deborah. Now.”

I might have whined. “Alright, just… I need the latrines, first.” _And a latte. And a breakfast bagel – plain, toasted, with cheddar, bacon, and egg._

I groaned as I walked.

“What is wrong?” Serana asked.

I might have grumbled.

. . . . . .

Serana led me to the roof of the college tower. The structure was more like a fort, or even a citadel. Perhaps, once, this place was indeed a looming symbol of Winterhold’s strength.

I looked down from the battlements at the ice floes and gentle sea. That was a mistake. We were very high up, even only part-way, as the highest roof was generally reserved for the arch-mage and certain ceremonies. The blue ward illuminated everything near the college; it encircled the entire property from the coast to the base of the bridge. The ward was a wall, however, not a dome.

“Could vampires get inside, if they swam?” I asked while still looking down. My fingernails futilely attempted to dig into the frozen stone parapet. If I was going to fall, I would not be able to save myself that way. “What about over the ward-wall?”

Serana joined me in gazing over the edge. If I were planning to kill her, or her me, now would have been the moment. No witnesses. Ice everywhere, slippery. Very long fall.

 _No vampire can be destroyed in this manner_ , Serana had said when I told her I had sent Torug off of a mountain. Knowing now that Serana could poof herself invisible only to poof herself visible somewhere else, that was likely how Torug survived the fall.

Though I was not actually planning on assassinating Serana, I was still disappointed at the unequal opportunity for murder. I wondered if the thoughts were my own, or tainted by Meridia’s undiscriminating hate. The line had been blurred long ago.

I hoped Serana couldn’t read minds.

“I could never reach this height,” she said. “You have seen what I can do—disappear, reappear. But this is not flying, and the vampires we have seen do not have claws to climb rock, just nails as we do. No, we are safe, here. The ward is very strong.”

The vampire then turned to me, her face completely neutral. “I have been thinking, about what it means that your blood is a weapon against vampires, perhaps all undead.”

“Oh?” I asked, walking toward the center of the battlement, away from the dangerous, untrustworthy parapet. I wrapped my arms around my body. Without my cloak-turned-mattress, I was cold. And a little frightened.

“I think your blood is an answer to my blood,” she said.

I looked at her, confused. “What do you mean, ‘answer’?”

“What I mean,” she said as she stepped slowly toward me, “is the Orsimer learned that to corrupt the Bow of Auriel, he needed vampire blood. Not any vampire, a pure-blood vampire. An original, borne of Molag Bal Himself. And, of course, he would not use his own blood. He could have—as you can see, I once again live—but I was the easier option. What better contrast to the blood of Molag Bal than the blood of Meridia?”

“The _blood_ of Meridia?”

“Yes,” she answered, plainly.

“You’re saying my blood is Meridia’s blood?”

“Yes, I believe it is. This, and perhaps your other gods. I am told you have dragon in you, too. This may not hurt our chances. Perhaps, this can only help.”

“Our chances? What are you talking about, Serana?”

She blinked at me. Her eye illusion faltered, and the irises flashed golden-red before returning to a mortal green.

“To cleanse the bow, of course,” she said, blinking again.

The breeze picked up, and a shiver ran down my spine. I felt the prickle of systemic piloerection as gooseflesh washed over my body. I might have gasped.

“You think,” I began, quietly, “that we need to cleanse this bow with my blood?”

Serana mimicked my pose, and crossed her slender, leather-clad arms. “I do,” she said matter-of-factly.

“ _All_ of my blood? The same as you?”

The vampire straightened her back and looked down her nose at me. A silent confirmation.

I stared at the stoic woman until I couldn’t look at her anymore. My head bowed, my arms dropped, and my knees nearly buckled. I backed away, finally colliding with the tower wall.

The iciness of the stone was appropriate. I closed my eyes, and burrowed into the cold. In the snow, in the ice, far away where no one would find me. I did not exist.

“I cannot think of any other way,” Serana said, after a while. Her tone was more gentle, then. “If you had known of your blood, what it was, perhaps this would have been clear to you, too. And I thought it was. I… I apologize.”

My fingertips stung. _Too cold_ , the nerves complained. The gooseflesh, however, had disappeared. The robe sleeves became constrictive. Too warm.

I inhaled the crisp air. I exhaled, drawn-out, forcing calm. Again.

“Are you hearing me?” the vampire asked.

I opened my eyes.

Serana had not moved. Her arms still guarded her chest. Her black hair fluttered in the stiff mountain breeze, a curtain of shoulder-length needles that always returned to their preferred position.

“You’re saying,” I breathed, “that you think I need to give my blood—” I swallowed hard “—all of my blood, so we can cleanse this bow?”

“Yes, this is what I am saying to you.”

I stood up. I straightened my back. I breathed deep. Again. Again. Again…

“Alright,” I said, mimicking Serana’s down-the-nose stance of confirmation. “Alright.”

“Alright?” she repeated.

I nodded, slowly, once. I held her gaze for a moment. “Alright.”

. . . . . .

Savos Aren, dressed in his purple robe finery, paced before me. I was seated at his insistence. Serana stood at a small distance behind me.

It was a lot for the arch-mage to take in. A vampire ally, refugees, cooperating with an occupying Dawnguard army, an immortal magical bow that could be anywhere, and a possible human sacrifice.

Human. I used to be human.

_What am I now?_

“There must be another way,” Savos muttered a handful times.

“I do not believe there is,” Serana responded, each time.

The exchange must have continued this way for at least ten minutes.

“This is what I was made for, Savos,” I explained. “It… it makes sense. We haven’t heard or seen anything of Alduin in a long time. Perhaps Torug has killed him. That was his duty.” I looked from Savos to my fingers. They were still cold. “Torug is my duty.”

From behind me sounded a small hiss. Serana did not like hearing the orc’s name.

“And if the World Eater still lives? What then?”

“I don’t know, Savos,” I said quietly.

“Perhaps you _need_ to know,” he countered.

“And perhaps not.” I stood, and turned toward Savos’ enchanting stable. I leaned forward, braced myself on the edge, and the little glass or crystal globe at the other end filled with a dark, colorful mist. A greeting.

“Serana said my blood is a weapon, that I am a weapon. A tool. The gods are using me. Perhaps there is nothing more to understand.”

 _Perhaps that’s why I can’t have nice things,_ I thought. _No husband, no lover, no family, no normal, no life. I am just passing through._

“Have you asked Meridia?” Savos’ tone was pleading.

My stubbed fingernails anchored into the woodgrain. “I don’t need to,” I answered, voice low. “She is always with me, now. I have tried praying, calling her to me, but I think that now, since the sky went dark, whatever I think is also what she thinks… some of the time.” I could still ignore her desire to kill Serana, at least.

“Then why didn’t you know about this before?” he asked.

The dark mist inside the globe dissipated. The room felt a little bit emptier.

“She needed me to accept it." The epiphany hit immediately. “One year ago, I would not have. I would have fought against it. I would have hidden.” Though Meridia and the gods would have found me, no doubt. They had found me in Yrsarald’s hideaway.

“And now you want to sacrifice yourself,” said Savos. The anger and sarcasm was palpable.

The mist in the globe did not return.

I stood up and looked back at the old Dunmer. “No.” I nearly choked. “I don’t _want_ to.” I approached him. “And I don’t _have_ to, either. But I know I should. All of it, Savos, all of the things I have been through, it was all to prepare for this war. Meridia never let me do things I was not ready for. Never let me keep… let me do things that might make me not ready.”

“And now you are ready,” he said through a heavy sigh.

I shook my head. “Can anyone truly be ready? For something like this? No. I’m not ready.” I frowned, deeply. “This is just good timing.”

I had always wondered if the gods took Yrsarald away from me on purpose. For this purpose. Deleting a distraction. But his death was horrific, an accident of fate. I would like to think if the gods had wanted Yrsarald out of the picture, they would have let him go gently, and not by attacking me, the god’s puppet, only to have me nearly die, to have me be the one to drive a sword through his chest.

The memory turned my stomach and I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the images out of my mind.

Hands fell upon my shoulders.

Savos. His dreadful blood-red eyes tore into my soul. He nodded, then turned away, back to his desk.

He looked as though he was pretending to be busy.

“Should we inform the Dawnguard of this?” he asked as he shuffled papers and straightened books.

I looked to Serana, who had no answer for me.

“No,” I decided. “I’ll tell who needs to know, when we find the bow.” _If we find the bow._

“Very well,” he answered without looking at either of us.

I stepped forward. “Savos, I need to write my family. They are at Fort Dawnguard.”

“Good luck with that,” he replied.

“Savos…”

The man turned to me, waiting for further reasoning that would not come. “The couriers only move official Dawnguard orders,” he finally said. “I don’t know what I can do to help you.”

“Aren’t _you_ official? This is your college.”

The man turned away again. He moved a candlestick toward a desk corner. “Not now, it isn’t,” he said.

. . . . . .

Dawnbreaker slammed into the left ribcage of a straw dummy clad in leather armor. When coming into contact with inanimate objects, the sword’s enchantment did not activate. If it had, the dummy would have been a pile of smoldering embers by now.

I unceremoniously and haphazardly attacked the dummy. Neck. Shoulder. Hip. Stomach. The point of the sword ruptured the leather armor and lodged into the straw abdomen. I gave the sword a twist for good measure. If the dummy had blood, it would have bled to death.

“You’re a lot better than ya used to be,” called a familiar gravelly voice. I looked toward the dimly lit doorway to find a smiling Stenvar. “ _Anatha_ , but better,” he added.

 _Anatha_. There was that word again. Yrsarald had called me that on several occasions. What did it mean? Ah, yes. ‘Clumsy’.

With a relatively effortless swing, the dummy was decapitated.

“Why don’t you spare the poor strawman,” said the sellsword. “Spar with me. No charge, this time.” His eyes twinkled when he grinned.

Normally his cheerfulness was infectious. Not today.

“Wow.” His grin faded. “Your friend’s death hit ya hard, huh?”

Friend’s death. Thrynn. _Yes, let’s go with that_. I sheathed Dawnbreaker, looked around, found the dummy’s head, a gnarled ball of pointy straw, and kicked it across the practice hall.

The two of us stood there in silence for a good long moment. From there, I crumpled to the floor. I stared at nothing.

“Remember,” I began, “remember that cave you took me to? Where the outlaws held me?”

At that, Stenvar joined me on the floor.

“The bandit cave half a day’s ride from Mixwater? Of course I remember.” A pause, and a chuckle. “Eh, what about it?” He cleared his throat.

“The man who—well, I suppose he saved me, perhaps saved my life—but the man who protected me while I was there, and then abandoned me in that cabin, I met him again, in Riften.”

“Oh, wow.”

“It was….” I picked up a single piece of straw from the floor and flicked it like striking a lighter. “It was a strange feeling. I hated him. Things he did, or didn’t do…. I punched him.”

Stenvar laughed.

“I felt bad for doing it. I felt _good_. It was… complicated.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Thrynn traveled with me and two of his friends to Solstheim. Neriwen and Altanir, you met them. He apologized to me. He explained what happened, in the cave and… other times. Things were getting better between him and me. And then, after getting to Solstheim….” I groaned, and cradled my head in my palm. “I found them again in Raven Rock, the big dock city there. He was so happy that I was alive. I think, except when he was saying or doing disgusting things, he was a good person. He just wanted to make things right between him and me. I think I… not scared him. I don’t know your word for when you seem big or important to someone, so big or important that you’re a little scary, make others feel smaller.”

Stenvar chuckled. “I don’t know if we have a word for that. But, I think I know what ya mean. You are that.”

I gazed at him, disbelieving that Stenvar found _me_ intimidating.

“Anyway,” I continued, rolling my shoulders and looking away, “that was my friend. My friend who died. His blood—” I motioned toward my face. “Vampire just… ate his neck. I couldn’t heal him. It… it’s hard for me, I think, because he was the first friend I had here. A kind of friend. And, then, a friend, in the end.”

I looked up at Stenvar, whose expression had softened to something more sympathetic. And then I realized something was missing.

“Where’s Krikit?”

“Mm. Back in the courtyard. Mirabelle’s orders.” He grimaced. “That woman has a way of gettin’ what she wants, doesn’t she?”

I nearly smirked. “She does.” The lightened mood didn’t last, however. I crumpled the piece of straw. It stabbed me in the pad of my thumb.

“Come on,” Stenvar said, standing up. “Your sword against mine.”

“Vampires don’t use swords,” I grumbled.

“I could throw some cabbages at you.” Confused, I looked up at him. He was serious. “Nah,” he said. “We don’t have many of those, anymore.” He reached out his hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Life’s too short to feel sorry for yourself. We’ve got a war to win.”

I stared at his hand. His calloused fingers fluttered, begging to be gripped.

The sob erupted out of nowhere. Tears flooded my vision. With a trembling hand I cradled my forehead, shielding my face from view. My arms shook. My body shook.

Something metal hit the floor. Arms wrapped around me. I struggled to be free, but was denied.

He held me. Tight. Tighter. The scruff on Stenvar’s neck scratched my forehead. I clung to his shirt.

“I’m here,” he lulled. “I’m here. It will be alright. We’ll all be alright. The gods won’t let anything happen to you.”

His words made me cry harder. I couldn’t breathe.

Stenvar rocked me in silence. He smoothed his hand down my hair, and let me mourn.

 

I calmed, eventually, sobs fading into whimpers. I still clung to Stenvar’s shirt.

“I know there’s something else goin’ on,” he said, voice unsteady. “I can see it. You can talk to me, ya know?” We both sniffled. “Please talk to me.”

My thoughts were frozen between truth and lie. I didn’t want to tell anyone. Already Savos, Serana, Altanir and Neriwen knew about my blood, and that was enough for now. Any more and soon everyone would know my fate, and then Torug would know. I didn’t need to give him any more reason to hunt me.

Any number of things could go wrong if everyone was aware of our secret weapon. People could protest, try to stop me. People could insist, cage me for my own protection. There would be infighting, chaos.

No. I couldn’t tell him.

_I’m sorry, Stenvar._

“Just hold me,” I whispered.

He jostled us with a light chuckle. “That I can do,” he said, already holding me. Rough lips planted a kiss on my forehead. “That I can do.”


	27. Chapter 27

Thirteen days of non-stop training with the Dawnguard mages and I had mastered their spells that embraced Restoration magic to harm the undead. The strongest spell was called Stendarr’s Light. I had practiced their magic while at Fort Dawnguard, but only now did I concentrate on perfecting it to the point of recirculating the energy, similar to when forming a lighting ball prior to casting it. If only wards and other protective spells could be cast in such a way, we mages would be invincible.

But the lack of sun and stars dimmed everyone’s talents. Only those who could easily tap into the powers of Oblivion – conjurers, mainly – could cast powerful spells. Except for myself, though were it not for Meridia’s mask I would have been just as weak.

Initially, I objected to using ‘living’ undead specimens as target practice. This sort of experimentation was exactly what we stopped at the fort in Whiterun Hold. At the college, we had special nodes to attract damage and avoid friendly fire. It wasn’t good enough, others decided.

I was outvoted. But after several days of watching mages practice the Dawnguard magic on zombies summoned from Oblivion and captive vampires, who were healed or raised by conjurers only to be nearly or actually killed again and again, after witnessing their improvements, I changed my mind. Though the magic nodes hinted at the damage done by spells, we never truly knew how much damage we could do. Were it not for the experimentation, I wouldn’t have known that my spells were incredibly weak and did nothing to deter attacks. Thirteen days later, this changed.

A summoned zombie would be in visible pain after only a simple spell called Sun Fire was cast upon it. Some zombies actually caught fire. When the spell was cast upon vampires, if the spell was strong enough, they burst into flames and seconds later were a cloud of sparkling ash.

There was no limit to the number of zombies that could be conjured from Oblivion. Even Serana could perform this awful task. Vampire captives, however, were few. The conjurers kept them unalive.

Serana held no qualms about the experimentation. She just wanted Torug and his progeny annihilated. By any means.

Standing in a cage several meters from me was a conjured zombie I nicknamed Greg. Greg had been conjured a week ago, and was still unalive. He didn’t look anything like my ex-husband, but the thought of torturing an unliving being still didn’t sit well with me. It helped to hate the thing, though hating a zombie wasn’t exactly difficult.

Standarr’s Light was an aura or orb that had a limited radius, but was very affective. Greg helped me perfect its potency, and learn its precise distance limits.

“And how is Greg today?” came Altanir’s voice to my right. His tattooed face was scruffier than usual, and gaunt. Considering he was Serana’s food, I hoped she was giving him her allotted portions of mortal fodder. It didn’t look like she was. Perhaps he simply had a high metabolism.

“Horrible, I’m sure,” I grumbled. “Do you need something?”

“Just wanted to see how you were. Haven’t talked in a few days.” His light grey eyes were saying more than his lips. He was concerned. He was sad.

With a sigh, I shot out a simple fire spell at Greg. “Serana told you,” I assumed. Of course she did. I had asked her not to.

“She didn’t think it was something you should keep secret. I agree. Why didn’t you tell me? I already knew about your blood, sort of. An’ yes, before you ask, I told Neriwen. There’s no secrets between her an’ me. Same with Serana.”

“Anyone else?” Greg’s left foot was on fire. Greg was on the floor snarling, clearly in pain. My contrition limit had been met days ago.

“No,” Altanir answered after a moment. “But you should tell him.”

I knew few water-element spells, but I was able to douse Greg’s flaming skin with a light coating of frost.

“Who?” I asked, knowing full well to whom Altanir was referring.

“He knows something’s the matter. Apparently you haven’t said much to him in over a week. Avoiding him, I believe his words were.”

“I’ve been busy,” I answered semi-honestly.

“So has he. Training anyone who can hold a sword to do so. Training them in armor, too. One of the young ones accidentally cut his arm the other day. He’s fine, though. I thought you would want to know.”

Greg was huddled in the corner of his small cage. It wasn’t as fun, casting the spells when they weren’t attacking, when their undead spirits, if they had such things – and sometimes it seemed that they did – had been broken.

“I thought you two were….” Altanir’s sentence stopped.

“No,” I answered.

“Alright, alright.”

I was about to set Greg aflame again when Altanir grabbed my right wrist. “Red, stop it. Talk to me.”

“We’re talking,” I spat, swinging my arm back to break his grip.

“What in Oblivion has gotten into you!? Has Meridia finally won?” His voice was a violent whisper. His nostrils were flaring, eyes wide. “You would spend your last days – if they are that – pushing everyone who cares for you away? Why are you suddenly so angry?”

“I am furious!” I yelled into his face. The sounds echoed around the spacious, populated practice hall. Everyone heard. _Smart, Deb. Smart._

I spun around and stomped toward the exit. Altanir followed. I rushed downstairs, heading for the gardens where few or no people would be. The underground caverns had become my retreat, as well as Serana’s. The area was big enough for the both of us.

After a few minutes of pacing, I finally looked Altanir in the eyes. “She knew,” I said. “Meridia. She knew about my blood, and said nothing.”

“This is old news, Red.”

“Have I always been like this!? When did this happen? When the sky went dark? When Meridia and Arkay and Akatosh and whoever breathed life into me? Because if—” I bit my lip. “If it was years ago, if I have always been this way, this _weapon_ , had I known….” I hugged myself tight, and squeezed the pooling tears from my eyes.

“What?” Altanir asked, softly.

Eyes open, I stared at nothing, and let the anger steel my resolve. “He nearly bit me, Altanir. On that mountain, before I met you. We fought. His vampires killed my bodyguard and Par—my friend. It was just him and me. Me and Torug. He had me. I was beaten. My armor was broken, torn apart. His teeth touched my neck. His….” The memory if his ice-cold erection nearly had me retching. “If I had just _let him_ … if he had… done what he wanted—he wanted to drink me dry. He said that. He wanted to drink from me while he raped me. And it almost….”

A rogue tear rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away. “I used a Shout. I won, I thought. Torug went over the mountain. He was gone. If I had just let him, none of this—” I faced Altanir “—none of this would have happened. Torug would have bitten me. He would have died. Windhelm would have never been attacked, and Yrsa—” I nearly chocked on his name. “Yrsarald would still be alive. If I had just let him—”

“You don’t know that!” Altanir breathed as he grasped my arms. “You have no idea what your blood would do to Torug. You know what it does to one vampire. One. Yes, one of Torug’s, but not Torug himself. I know Serana says she knew it was poison, an’ that you think your friend Ralof was attracted to your scent just like Torug was, but you have no idea what would have happened. Stop thinking about that. _Never_ let anyone do that to you, for _any_ reason.” Altanir gently shook me. “Do you hear me? It’s done. You cannot change what happened. Yrsarald is dead. Many others are dead. But there are _hundreds_ of others here, in The Rift, and elsewhere who need you to look forward. Look forward, Red!”

Altanir’s grip on my arms had become painful, but he backed away once his tirade was finished.

“We’ve tested it on others,” I muttered.

The man’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“My blood,” I explained. “We’ve tested it. In secret. On the captive vampires. That’s why there are so few now.” I pushed up the sleeve of my forever-stained leather armor to reveal several healed cuts, wounds made to draw blood that was used to coat various weapons.

“Each time, the effect was the same. The vampires turned to dust. It is not just one vampire, Altanir.” I frowned, and bowed my head. “But you’re right. I don’t know what would have happened. I don’t know if I can just stab Torug with a dagger and have it be done.” Looking to my side at a locked garden gate, I added, “Serana dreams of that. Stabbing Torug repeatedly with a dagger dripping with my blood.”

“Hmph. Yeah, I know.”

Silence.

Altanir and I shared a lingering, emotionless glance.

“Are you feeling better, now?” he asked.

Stubbornly, I wanted to say no. I wanted to retain a steel exterior. I wanted to be unlovable.

I wasn’t very good at pretending.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“Are you going to tell Stenvar?”

I paused, and then confirmed, “No.”

“An’ why not?”

Truthfully, I answered, “I think he will try to stop me.”

Altanir fell quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I think you may be right about that.” A hand swept up and down my upper arm. “Come on. Let’s go train some mages.”

I nodded, and Altanir led the way up the stairs.

 

As we entered the main foyer just before the practice hall, Neriwen stopped us.

“I’ve been looking for you!” she said excitedly. She then eyed her flanks, and stepped close to me. She took one of my hands in hers, and placed within it a small, heavy object. “I heard you wanted to get a letter out to your family,” she whispered close to my face. “This should help.”

Neriwen chuckled and spun away, trotting to the side and up the stairs, disappearing into the shadows.

When I looked down, I knew immediately what it was she had handed me, and shoved it into my small pouch tied to my belt.

. . . . . .

_23 Frostfall, 4E 204_

_To my family:_

_In case this letter does not go to you but to others, I cannot say everything. I am fine. I am in the place where we drank that bad ale. Soon, we will be in the place where the bad ale became a good heart. After that I do not know. We may return to the ale place. We may go somewhere else. We think we need to go somewhere else. Far. I have never been so far. I don’t know when._

_You need to know this—from this far place I may not return. I do not know. I will try._

_Friends here with me know what to do if I die. I have things with me that need to go to you, to the children._

_I love you all._

_Take care of him. Take care of everyone._

_I love you._

_I need to do this. I am sorry._

 

The letter, unsigned, was folded and sealed with a wax stamp bearing the sigil of the Dawnguard. On the outside, the address was simple: “To Marcurio Fiore, Court Mage of Windhelm. FD. Urgent. Hand to hand.” Neriwen had researched how their couriers labeled the letters. Fort Dawnguard. No one but Marcurio. The Court Mage title was only a slight lie. Or perhaps not. I was, after all, the de facto jarl of Windhelm.

Neriwen slipped the letter into the outgoing courier’s satchel when no one was looking, simultaneously confirming it belonged to the correct courier, headed to the fort. There were at least a dozen letters in the satchel, Neriwen related. Camouflage. Neriwen slipped the stamp into the letter satchel at the same time. Better found in the wrong place than lost.

The clues in the letter were things only Marcurio and Bird would understand. We drank the bad ale in Winterhold, which made Flavia Good-Heart, who was named in Windhelm.

I didn’t know why I wanted them to know where I was. Perhaps a part of me hoped their prayers to the gods, if they made any, would find us more easily. Thinking back, I probably should have said nothing about my whereabouts. It was too late, now.

I spent the rest of the evening alone with Savos in his quarters. He was watering his plants, not edible ones but those used for alchemic purposes. They grew by the light of magic and drank from melted snow and ice.

The hum of magic was comforting, as was watching the old man tend to the garden, and tend to the college’s ward spell. The ward renewal process required Savos to meditate for an extended period, in silence, undisturbed. He joked that the process took years off his already long life. I wasn’t so sure he was joking.

I felt bad for sleeping on a spare mattress on Savos’ floor instead of in the halls with everyone else. Savos insisted, however. Why would I refuse?

I felt bad for not spending this time with Krikit, who remained outside despite the growing cold. I hated that Krikit had to remain outdoors, but it was better for him. He could do his business without much issue; it froze quickly. Plus, there were no errant spells being cast in the courtyard. Or, at least, fewer. Apparently sharing my concern, Stenvar built a doghouse near a magical node which generated a small amount of heat. The sellsword had been spending a lot of time with the dog, I heard.

I felt bad for being willing to orphan my son. I had already said my goodbyes to everyone at the fort, just in case. It was better that I not see them again, particularly Virald. Holding him again would too easily change my mind. The little boy would doom us all.

Mostly, I felt bad for not telling Stenvar what was wrong. He thought it was about Thrynn at first, but quickly guessed it was something else. That something else was my suspicion that Stenvar would protest my sacrifice, should the time come. Altanir all but confirmed this.

I thought about what I would have done were Yrsarald still alive. The man had always been so selfless, but at the same time extremely protective. Yrsarald was always mindful of one’s duty. He knew I would not be able to simply stay in the palace forever. I convinced myself that Yrsarald would have mourned heavily, perhaps even raged, but would have eventually sent me off to my fate. It was simply his way.

Wuunferth and Ingjard would have encouraged me to do my duty. Ingjard would have been proud of me. Wuunferth would have pretended not to care, but both of us would have known better.

I had the feeling Marcurio and Bird would support my decision. Perhaps not at first, particularly not Marcurio, but eventually they would come to terms with it.

And Altanir, Neriwen, and Serana were not standing in my way. Though I hardly expected Serana to care if I lived or died once Torug was slain.

I pictured Yrsarald first learning of my fate. I pictured his tears, his anger. I heard his wailing. If Yrsarald had begged me to stay, begged me not to sacrifice myself, I would have complied. I would have lay down in his lumberjack arms, Virald cradled between us, and I would have happily watched the world burn. As much as I would have liked to think better of myself, I wasn’t so sure I would have done my duty. And this, I believed, was why Yrsarald was taken from me. Because I was selfish.

The epiphany came as I stared at the dark hole in the tall ceiling. A window to let the sun and rain, when there was sun and rain, inside and onto the garden.

Stenvar had been doting, lately – overly so. I had welcomed the comforting, seemingly platonic embraces for a while, but an alarm bell in my brain had begun to ding. Until now, I hadn’t understood why.

I maintained a modicum of distance from the man, because subconsciously I had known that I couldn’t entertain Stenvar’s behavior. It was too risky.

Because I loved him, too.


	28. Chapter 28

I couldn’t sleep. Over the last two weeks I had not slept well at all, suffering random and often violent stress dreams ranging from having ‘T-Rex arms’ to being chased by vampires that were draped in bloody offal. That was probably one reason I didn’t sleep last night.

The other reason was obvious – I hated myself. Perhaps the dreams were a self-flagellation, of sorts. Last night I could not stop thinking about Stenvar, and how I had been avoiding him after swearing to myself that I would never do that to him again. Indeed, I had been avoiding everyone except for Savos, more or less, and it took Altanir’s chiding to snap me out of what I could only assume was a bout of depression.

And why not? I was facing my own possible imminent death. If we found the bow, would we try another option, first? Have a priest bless the bow? Say a few prayers? Dip an arrow into a bit of my blood and shoot it into the sun?

That was what Torug had to do. Curse the bow, and shoot an arrow into the sun – or rather, at the sun. A single arrow, dipped in his or Serana’s blood, would have clouded the sun for a single day. Torug apparently did not care for experimentation.

Perhaps cleansing the bow didn’t actually require all of my blood. Serana wasn’t certain about the details. All she knew was that Torug actualized the plans that her father, a lord named Harkon, had been researching for a very long time before his demise at her and Torug’s hands. What she did know was that the bow was now tainted, and that the act of tainting it was the catalyst for a prophecy, or rather a curse.

Meridia had previously asked me to cleanse her temple of a curse. Dawnbreaker had been tainted. I did not need to bleed in order to cleanse Dawnbreaker; the man who cursed the weapon needed only be killed. Simple. Why would this be any different? Perhaps Torug simply needed to die.

Over the last two weeks I hypothesized with Savos – something we both enjoyed doing, and it kept my mind occupied – the various options and outcomes I might face.

My blood might be collected over time. If it was merely a matter of volume and not the act of draining a body dry that was necessary, this could be a loophole in the curse’s reversal. Torug did drain Serana slowly, but over the course of a day or so, not weeks. I had only donated blood once in my life and had no recollection of how often and how much a human body could give, but I suspected it was not repeatable over the course of days. According to reports from the Dawnguard officers, the people of Skyrim were living on borrowed time. Winter had come, and many, they feared, would not see the spring. Inland resources were simply too few, and the harvest had been disrupted. I worried about everyone I knew in Whiterun, but worrying would not feed them. The Dawnguard would do whatever they could to help; I had to believe that. Whatever the case, we didn’t have weeks, let alone months. We needed this mess to be fixed as soon as possible. Blood-letting over time was not a viable option.

We could bathe the bow in as much blood as I could give in one day. Healing magic would help my body hasten its recovery afterwards, perhaps allowing for the collection of more blood sooner than naturally possible – a thought that occurred to us regarding periodic blood-letting, too. We could test the bow, after its blood bath. If nothing happened, we would have an answer. If the clouds cleared for a moment or a day, we would have a different answer. Savos and I were both fond of experimentation, but this took time we might not have.

The hypothesizing also kept me from sleep. Savos, on the other hand, exhausted from his chores, slept soundly, and silently.

The hole in the ceiling was as black as ever, signaling dawn had yet to break. Perhaps it was barely even midnight. I crawled out of my makeshift bed and plodded over to Savos’ private latrine and pantry and then, after grabbing my cloak, plodded my way to the courtyard.

Krikit was ecstatic. And his doghouse, built by Stenvar, had room enough inside for me to curl up next to my furry son, who forgave me instantly for being a largely absent mother. Perhaps the bits of dried meat I brought from Savos’ private stash had something to do with it.

. . . . . .

“I heard you were sad, but this is going a bit far.”

The voice pulled me out of my quasi-sleep. For a moment, I thought I had heard Thrynn. But peering into the doghouse opening, illuminated by a blue-white magical node, was the ghostly face of my least favorite person, excepting Torug.

“Onmund!” I gasped. “What are you—”

“Don’t worry,” he said, body braced up by his elbow. “I wasn’t…. I was looking for you. Everyone is. Suppose my Clear-seeing spell is stronger than others’.”

“When did you get here?” I asked as I scooted my way out of the structure. I likely smelled like dog. Not that many people these days smelled any better.

Krikit was on the other end of the courtyard, squatting. Apparently, he had already introduced himself to Onmund, otherwise he would have been barking up a storm. It was also possible that Onmund used a calming spell on my dog.

“Just now, basically. The troops are moving up from The Rift,” the mage explained. “They’re going to set up camp near Windhelm, meet troops from elsewhere. I, well, came by other means. Figured I would come here first.”

I cocked a brow.

“Heh, I know. I’m not welcome here. I already spoke with Savos, bearing a signed order from the Dawnguard. I’m a courier, now, see?” He held open his round satchel, several scrolls and letters inside. “I can move faster than others, and the vampires usually don’t see me.”

“More invisibility magic?” I asked accusingly.

“Absolutely. And a few other tricks. Call it… leftovers from my brief connection to Oblivion.”

Forehead planted firmly in my palm, I groaned.

“Hey,” he said as he gently pulled my hand away from my head. I didn’t resist. “I’m only trying to help. I can help.” His expression was one of pure sincerity. It still annoyed me. “Anyway, I have to find these officers. You should get ready, they’ll want to move out as soon as possible. Today or tomorrow morning.”

“But I’m not sure we’re ready to fight yet! Many mages have been training in Conjuration, learning spells they hadn’t even considered before. We’re not ready!”

Walking away from me, Onmund turned and continued walking, backwards, bearing a broad smile. “Then get ready!” he hollered cheerfully.

“Wait! Onmund, my family!”

“They’re fine!”

The little shit was gone, and Krikit and I were alone. The dog was happy, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

Fine. My family was fine. That is, if I could trust Onmund. I didn’t, but he had no reason to lie about that.

“And what am I going to do with you?” I pondered, gazing into the brown eyes of my furbaby.

Krikit cocked his head, listening.

“Are you a war dog?”

His ears perked, and then resettled. Pant, pant, tongue loll.

“Yeah, you’re a war dog.”

. . . . . .

I left Krikit to his private quarters to search in earnest for Stenvar. If we were going to be moving soon, I wanted, needed to apologize to him now – alone, if possible. I wasn’t sure how he or I would react, but I was prepared for both yelling and crying. I attempted to steel myself to prevent both. A scene, public or otherwise, was not something I wanted to cause.

I returned to the place he had been sleeping. The area was full of people, busy, but Stenvar was not there. His bedroll, lute, and other belongs, however, were. I was about to cast Clear-seeing when something caught my attention.

A journal, placed next to Stenvar’s lute. The little leather-bound possession called to me. It practically sung my name.

_Don’t you do it, Deb._

I sat down on his bedroll, and picked up the journal.

 _Don’t you dare_.

I opened the journal.

_This is a very bad idea._

“Shut up,” I said aloud in English as I turned the page.

On a page half-scratched out with inked lines were what looked like edited poems. Song lyrics, perhaps. The handwriting was sloppy; I couldn’t recall what Stenvar’s looked like. Yrsarald’s was neat. Marcurio’s was very neat. Brelyna’s was profound in its legibility. This handwriting looked similar to that in the book of folk songs Stenvar had gifted me – one of the few things to survive the Riften fire.

The next page and the next were all the same. Edited lyrics.

 _ ~~So~~ Much time has passed since I saw her ~~face~~_  
_~~I~~ My eyes have been searching but she’s hidden ~~from everyone~~_  
_The last time ~~we~~ I spoke to her she said not a word ~~to me~~_  
_If I die before ~~I find her~~ she’s found, carve these words on my grave_

I flipped two pages forward.

 _Though the sun is ~~gone~~ dark_  
_And the night long_  
_~~I’m~~ We’re still ~~here~~ breathing_

 _This endless night_  
_Which we’ve lived_  
_Will fade away with ~~your~~  her light_

Many verses were crossed out on this page.

 _Though ~~you are~~ she is the sun_  
_And holy ~~light~~ stars as well_  
_~~I will make~~ I long to be ~~yours~~ hers_  
_~~My~~ Our hero of the light_

 _I will wait_  
_I will wait_  
_I will wait for ~~you~~ her_

I found the final entry, not one-third through the journal, looking like it was written in a rush and then entirely scratched out. I could barely read the words.

 _~~Itta her~~ _  
_~~Sovenda ast min’ slith~~_  
_~~Da ers svasa, fysara~~_  
_~~Da ers hem~~_  
_~~Zeik er’ta bithig~~_

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Someone sat down in front of me, leaning against the stone wall of one of the dormitory bedrooms.

Stenvar. He was sipping from a canteen. They must have finally run out of mead, or stopped serving it to people. Could mead be used to treat injuries?

“Find anything you like?” the sellsword asked, casually, as if I were shopping for a sweater.

I was stunned, a deer in front of a truck, or rather a hacker caught with her hands on the hard drive. “I. I was. I’m….”

“It’s alright. You can look.” He barely looked at me, and took another sip. “They’re just songs.”

Just songs. Just songs? What did that last entry say? I wanted to look again, but instead closed the journal.

 _Fysara_. That word I read, and the line after. _Fysara. Da ers hem._

_Wanted. You are home._

_You are wanted?_

I gently laid the journal down next to the man’s lute. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t usually look at people’s journals.”

 _And those are absolutely not ‘just songs’_ , I wanted to add. But I closed my eyes, wishing nothing more than to retreat again to Krikit’s doghouse.

They were all about me. All of them. Were they not? If they weren’t, I was much more conceited and clueless than I wanted to admit.

I opened my eyes to find Stenvar peering at the journal. The last entry. The scratched-out words.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I blurted, winning his gaze. “I wanted….” I looked away. Looking at him made thinking difficult. “I’m sorry. I avoided you. Other people, too. I’ve been—I had a hard time with… things.” Did Norren have a word for depressed? I couldn’t remember. “I suppose I just needed to be alone, for a while,” I said, lying, sort of. “But I wish I could go back and not do that. I told myself I wouldn’t do that to you anymore.” I turned to him again. “I’m sorry.”

Stenvar’s face was lined more than I remembered. Not wrinkles, but creases. I realized I had rarely seen him frown. “Everyone handles death differently,” he offered, a simple truth to explain away my lie.

Thrynn’s death had hit me hard, that was true. I had seen too many people I cared about die right in front of me. Perhaps that was another reason I wanted to avoid allowing Stenvar further into my heart. Yrsarald’s death nearly broke me, and I had to bear Ingjard’s and Parthurnax’s and the Greybeards’ deaths all alone. I was convinced I couldn’t bear more. It took enough courage to face my own death.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, putting down the journal. “I think they want to move out tomorrow.”

“I just heard. Do you think we’re ready? To fight, I mean. I’ve never attacked a city.”

“Think of it as attackin’ vampires, not a city.” He smiled. “We’ll get in easily, I suspect.”

I nodded. “I heard rumors they expect me to Shout the gates down.”

“If the gates are standing to begin with. The fire might've destroyed them.”

Silence.

“Are you leading any troops?” I asked him.

“Nah. I’ve never been much of a leader.”

Silence.

“But there’s some folks here,” he continued after a while, “I knew them from before. Years ago. And also some folks I tried to recruit to come to Meridia’s temple. They’re all-in with me, now. Didn’t want anything to do with fighting before.” He chuckled. “Guess something changed their minds.”

I actually smiled. “Maybe you inspired them to fight.”

He laughed. “Wasn’t me, sweetheart.” His smiling eyes looked my way. “You’re the inspiring one,” he said softly.

I scoffed. “How can a sad, angry woman be inspiring?”

“You weren’t always that. Everyone knows what you’ve been through. That’s part of it, actually. But I remember you happy, whole. That’s… that’s most of it.”

Silence.

“Did I inspire those?” I asked, limply pointing to his journal.

The man looked to the song book, then to his hands, the hint of a sheepish smile on his face. “Every _skald_ needs his hero.”

Silence.

I had the distinct impression that both of us were dancing around the subject we both wanted – or both didn’t want – to address. This was a good thing. Neutral ground. Two opposing magnets.

“I suppose I should get my orders, or something,” I said, standing.

“Being you is probably enough,” he replied, standing as well. “Just Shout, use your magic and your sword. Try not to die.”

I nearly choked. “Right.” I turned to leave. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Hey,” he said, grasping my arm and urging me to turn back. Without another word, Stenvar held my shoulders at arm’s distance and gazed into my eyes. He then advanced, slowly, initiating an awkward hug. And then he didn’t let go. The stiff embrace melted into something more fluid, natural. I buried my face into his shirt, smelled his musk. Our breaths synced.

“ _Min’ hulta se klus_ ,” he whispered.

_My hero of the light._

He then added, “Look for me on the battlefield. I’ll be there, if you need me.”

We breathed each other in for what seemed a long time. And as I walked away, my hand slid down Stenvar’s arm. Our fingers hooked, briefly, neither of us wanting to let go, but doing so, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stenvar’s crossed-out lyrics: Come here / Sleep by my side / You are loved, wanted / You are home / I’ve been waiting
> 
> Skald = warrior-poet


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously I do not own the lyrics provided within this chapter. That would be Bethesda.
> 
> I edited an audio accompaniment for that particular scene, however:  
> [[Tumblr audio link]](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com/post/162022471998/nords-to-war) [[mirror 1]](https://instaud.io/Vk9) [[mirror 2]](http://vocaroo.com/i/s0IgSh0eEnRX)

By the time we reached the wooded hills north of Windhelm, the fighting had already begun outside and within the city walls. That had not been the plan. I overheard grumblings of camps being made too close to the city, within eyeshot of sentries on the ramparts, but more likely it was patrolling vampire scouts who had sniffed out the early armies. Why would they not attack at first scent of fresh blood?

Our large party, comprising several hundred people from northern Skyrim, rushed our way south from the fort where we had just retrieved twelve cartloads of supplies. I had a mind to go ahead on my own, Shouting my way down the hills and cross-cutting the roads, but there was safety in numbers, and sitting where I was, on a horse-drawn cart, saved me energy. The horses, and their stamina, were expendable. I was not.

I sat with Dawnbreaker in hand, waiting, meditating, planning, sensing. The closer we rode, the stronger the foreboding, and the larger the knot in my gut. And yet, the closer we rode, the brighter the flames of hatred, of vengeance.

_This is where I avenge you, Yrsa. There is where you can finally rest._

The shouting, screams, explosions, and clashing of metal grew louder as we cleared a hill and turned left. There was Windhelm, burning, again. What would be left inside worth reclaiming? Even stone if burned long and hot enough could crack.

And then, another explosion, this time from above and echoing all around. At first my confused brain routed directly to ‘bomb’ but no, this was thunder. Thunder, followed instantly by a waterfall of rain, the first rain since the sky went dark.

Whoops and cheers sounded all at once as we continued toward the city. I saw Stenvar and his dozen-some crew, on foot, raising their arms and welcoming the downpour. Many others did the same, and cries of “Kyne is with us!” and the like were heard up and down the line.

Altanir, Neriwen, and Serana, however, all sitting by me, silent, lifted their cloak’s hood over their heads, and scowled.

“Water makes for a slippery weapon,” Altanir grumbled.

“And wind is no good for arrows,” added Neriwen. She looked to the trees. “But the wind is gentle, so far.”

Ahead, a woman began to holler. I tried to listen over the rain, but heavy drops against a sea of plate armor drowned most other sounds, and she was far from me. But then others joined in.

“ _Dovahkiin kos fin saviik!_ ” were the words a group had begun to cry out, repeating. Drums began to beat in sync before and behind me. “ _Dovahkiin kos fin saviik!_ ”

A switch in my brain flicked on, and the words finally made sense. They were the words of dragons, and of Nords from millennia past.

 _Dragonborn is the Savior_ , was the direct translation. Dragonborn, the Savior.

A portion of our small army broke out into song. The tune was familiar, as I had heard Stenvar sing to it, once, but with different, satirical lyrics.

The song was an old one, penned eras ago, kept alive by bards and scholars. And, apparently, devotees of Kyne. I had also read the lyrics while learning to read Norren, with Ralof in Riverwood.

The lyrics were about the Dragonborn, the legend. Or, perhaps, the song was actually a prophecy. I hadn’t thought about that possibility until now.

“Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart.  
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes.  
With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art.  
Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes.”

The drumbeats maintained a fast pace. A marching cadence. The volume of the song increased. More people had joined in, and not only the Nords.

“It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes.  
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes.  
For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows.  
You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come.”

Stenvar’s voice, as it usually did, carried over the others. He looked my way as he sang words that, to my surprise, switched from Norren to dragon-speak.

 _"Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin,_  
_naal ok zin los vahriin,_  
_wah dein vokul  
mahfaeraak ahst vaal._

 _Ahrk fin norok paal graan_  
_fod nust hon zindro zaan,_  
_Dovahkiin, fah hin_  
_kogaan mu draal.”_

The song was over, and several dozen warriors broke the line, sprinting toward the city, weapons raised and shouting an unintelligible mass of words. One phrase stood out, however: “For Skyrim.”

Somehow, these people had learned ancient dragon words that were apparently part of this ancient song. I knew their meaning. Did they?

The lyrics claimed that the Dragonborn was sworn by honor to fight evil, and that Shouts scared the enemy. The song asked for my blessing.

What blessing could I give? What was expected of me?

There was no time for prayer, no time to ask for Meridia’s or other’s guidance. This was it. This was war. First blood had already been spilled.

 _Kaan_ , I thought. Kyne. Kynareth. That was her name, the one Paarthurnax used for the goddess of weather, and of warriors. _Kaan_. Funny how hermit monks on a mountain preached peace while praising the name of a war deity.

I said the word aloud. I said it again.

“ _Kaan_.”

Perhaps she would hear me.

“ _Kaan.”_ Louder, louder.

“What are you saying?” asked Neriwen.

“She is calling to Kyne,” Serana muttered. “They all are.”

The cart stopped. We deboarded.

“ _Kaan!_ ” I shouted to the clouds, wondering if the solitary word was, in and of itself, a Shout, a prayer, a summons.

Altanir, Neriwen, and Serana were with me, and Stenvar and his crew flanked us. Several Dawnguard archers, wielding hefty crossbows, took up the rear on their horses. And around the lot of us, in front and behind, were hundreds of others, looking to me, waiting.

I reached into my knapsack and retrieved Miraak’s mask, my mask, and tossed the knapsack onto the cart along with my cloak. With the mask on my face I turned back toward the screaming city. The enhanced visual of the rising smoke, otherwise invisible against the darkened sky, combined with the downpour and occasional sheet lightning was overwhelming. I avoided looking up again.

I was nervous. I was terrified. I was slightly dizzy from overstimulation.

But I was ready.

I raised Dawnbreaker to the sky, the light from her gem serving as a beacon on the twilight battlefield. A signal. A cue.

Showtime.

I inhaled sharply, and head tilted back, repeated the cry of the brave warriors already in battle.

“For Skyrim!”

“May Kyne kiss us all!” shouted a man up ahead.

 

Forward we stormed, joining the ranks of the self-appointed front line, and joining those who had arrived earlier. The scene was akin to the previous battle I had fought here, but with an important difference. This time, there were more of us – and we wanted our city back.

Lightning from above pulsed as a fireball barreled toward us. I reached up with my left hand to block the spell with a ward, causing the two magics to form a familiar hurricane of opposing forces. The blast had no impact other than a dazzling visual, soon over. The vampire who had cast the spell was hidden by the darkness.

Many vampires were mages. That was where Restoration magic and its counter spells came in handy. More fireballs joined with glowing spears of ice whizzed through the air. It was the javelins made of frozen water that worried me most. I never stopped one with a ward. I wasn’t sure I could. Only material shields could do that.

After another few fireballs we were no longer being attacked where we stood – something must have drawn the vampires elsewhere. Our mass of soldiers made its way around to the south of the city, toward the gates. Typically, the city was only accessed from two points – the massive bridge that crossed the wide river and led from the stables to the main gates, and the docks which had a smaller entrance. As we rounded the southwestern corner of the towering city wall, fighting along the way, I saw several dozen people concentrated just to the side of the bridge end, next to the gate. Soldiers with shields protected those who held hooked siege ladders, and other fighters climbed up to the bridge – some of them successfully.

The fight to open the main gate was well under way. In addition to casting spells of fire, ice, and something red, vampires were leaping down from the ramparts to attack the soldiers, and most were taken down easily by swords or arrows. From afar I could see some vampires catch flame after being struck – an enchanted blade, perhaps, or a silver alloy.

Though the fighters around me seemed to be unsure where to go, I knew I had to get up onto that bridge, but most of us would have to remain on the ground. Too many people on the bridge, before the gate was opened, could lead to some being pushed off onto the mud below. The twenty-foot or so drop would not end well for most living people.

“I’m going up there,” I said to anyone within earshot. My grip tightened on Dawnbreaker.

A hand grasped my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. I turned to see Altanir’s shining eyes, their silveriness enhanced by the mask’s altered visual. The man gave me an approving nod.

“Go,” he said, and then began to forge a path ahead of us.

Someone followed, close behind. I turned to find Stenvar and a shield-bearing dark-haired woman. The looks on their faces told me ‘no’ was not an acceptable answer; they were coming with me.

“I’ll cover you from here!” Neriwen called as I marched toward the siege ladders. I barely heard her over the increasingly loud din of war.

Another blast of fire came toward me, and again it was blocked by my ward.

Not only did the power of this mask help regenerate my magical energies at near-instant speeds, it was obvious to me that my spells were stronger, and my reaction time quicker. Another, larger fireball came close, and met its end against my ward orb. I realized then that I could maintain the ward indefinitely without issue, leaving those around me to worry about tangible attacks. The shieldmaiden was quick to block an ice spear that was near-invisible until very close. The reverberating _thunk_ hurt my ears, but I was thankful for that large metal shield and this large warrior woman who insisted on bearing it before me.

The closer we got, the more we were rushed by others who wanted onto the bridge as well. Some people formed a group on the other side of the bridge and others joined from the south, from the stables. A logical order of shield-bearer and mage or fighter proceeded up the ladders. Every second or third person to ascend was a defender, and thankfully the majority of bodies tossed into the river from the bridge were those of vampires. And then, a heavy, dull _thud_ sounded repeatedly above. Battering ram.

By the time I reached the top of the ladder, with the shieldmaiden ahead of me and Stenvar behind, the gate had been set aflame and was just about ready to collapse onto itself. Destroying the gate was not ideal, particularly if more vampires attacked the city again, but it was too late, and I was not in charge of this army.

Several more vampires leapt down. One of them mauled a man holding the ram. A woman wielding a short axe quickly cleaved the vampire’s neck and kicked the body away and off the bridge. Screams from behind signaled the presence of more vampires. I let the ward orb dissipate, and with Dawnbreaker I attacked the vampires I could see. One. Three. Seven. My blade was not the only one to end an un-life. Stenvar’s weapon, like mine, was enchanted with an undead-repelling magic. Strikes from his and my sword had vampires attempting to flee or cowering and, if struck by Dawnbreaker, on fire, or blasted into clouds of ash that dusted everyone in the near vicinity.

One vampire was struck down by an arrow to the face, an arrow that could have easily taken me or anyone else down. Before the vampire was tossed over the edge I saw the arrow’s green feathers and recognized it as one of Neriwen’s. Looking to the side I couldn’t see her, but she was there, on the ground, doing exactly what she said she would.

I imagined Serana was elsewhere, perhaps wary of the commotion and potential confusion that could lead to her death by friendly fire. She was likely with Altanir, protecting our flanks.

It wasn’t much longer before the massive wooden gate was destroyed. Soldiers began to break it apart further with their weapons, making the chokepoint wider. Vampires and magic continued to rain down from the ramparts, and we continued to defend those who were carving a way into Windhelm. I witnessed an unknown woman get impaled by an ice spear, the force sending her off the bridge. Smaller ice crystals rained down on others like shards of glass, tinkling against the stone and metal. Those people who were hit retreated toward the stables, screaming. Perhaps healers awaited the injured there. Mages on the bridge held wards and cast various spells, including the same undead-repelling magic that enchanted Dawnbreaker. Several vampires ran themselves off of the bridge.

Though the rain had let up somewhat, the storm continued and was right overhead, signaled by close-sequence thunder. In between fireballs and ice spears were nearby lightning strikes, which terrified me more than the vampires. Half of the people in this army wielded metal weapons and bore metal armor. What would happen if one of us was struck? Would the lightning ground itself in that person or the wooden or bone handles of weapons, or would it leap to another soldier who might be close enough, forking its way through the army? Lightning magic worked in this way. Chain lightning. It was a weaker spell, but could still kill, and bodies certainly did not prevent it from traveling. But this was magical lightning, not natural. Perhaps the padding under metal armor insulated a body from a lightning strike. Perhaps padding retained the lightning, causing a body to be cooked underneath.

I never wished for Google more.

“Do you think all this metal will bring the lightning down onto us?” I hollered at Stenvar.

The man looked at me blankly, and then fought away two vampires. We waited for the path through the gate to be cleared.

“What do you mean, bring the lightning down?” he asked.

“The metal armor and weapons. Isn’t that dangerous in a storm?”

Stenvar stared again, gazed over my shoulder, and then huffed a laugh. “No,” he said flatly, and then nodded toward something before us.

The gate had been cleared, and the army was pushing into the city. The dark-haired shieldmaiden walked ahead of me. Stenvar grasped my shoulder to hold me back a moment, and then met my stride.

“Kyne would never harm us,” he said in a firm, loud voice. “Especially not you. Next to you is the safest place to be during a storm.” He chuckled. “And, anyway, I’ve never heard of lightning strikin’ a warrior just because he was wearin’ armor. I don’t—”

The man paused to join me and others in fighting off a small horde of vampires that wielded nothing but their freakishly long nails. One of them, a Khajiit, met its end when the dark-haired shieldmaiden took off its head with her sword.

More soldiers and mages flowed into the city, and the attacks from the vampires ceased. Either we had quickly drilled through their ranks, or the others had receded into the city depths. I banked on the latter.

“Yeah,” Stenvar said with a grunting sigh, and then wiped his blade clean of vampire blood onto the rags of one of their fallen. “Don’t mind the storm, sweetheart. I don’t think you have anything to worry ab—”

Flash. Bang. Rumble. The world shook as I was knocked off my feet. My head landed on someone’s body, thankfully not on anything sharp. The echoing thunder faded, and silence swept over the city square as we all gazed at each other in bewilderment. I did not know the person whose thigh had stopped my head from slamming onto the stone ground. I did not see Stenvar or the dark-haired shieldmaiden. My mask was no longer on my face, and Dawnbreaker was no longer in my hand.

But I was fine. I was not in pain; I had suffered no blow. My ears, however, were ringing loudly, and my vision was clouded by flash blindness.

I considered that lightning had struck the square, the stone itself rather than a person. It was also possible we had triggered a lightning rune, though had that been the case there would have been people screaming in agony.

But looking around, I saw no exploded stone where a bolt would have hit or a rune would have been placed. And though my ears were still ringing I heard no wails or cries for help. Perhaps no one was injured, just dead. A quick cast of death-detection magic showed no dead living bodies in the area, which would have glowed gold, only several dozen dead undead bodies, which glowed white.

I took a moment to take a tally of my surroundings, both visual and otherwise. A quick, silent Shout revealed a hefty presence of undead nearby. Something kept them from attacking right now, while we were relatively easy pickings. Perhaps they waited indoors for us to find them. An ambush. More chokepoints. Traps.

As we rose to our feet, all rubbing our ears and eyes, more people entered the city. There was Altanir, Neriwen, and Serana, looking on, confused.

“No!” cried a man at the other end of the square. “Gods, he’s not breathing!” His voice was muffled, like I was wearing earmuffs.

I turned toward the cry and found the only person still flat on the ground, a young man likely in his late teens. The stench of seared flesh immediately bombarded my nostrils, and by the angry, forking burn on this boy’s cheek and the char marks on his leather armor, it was obvious he had been struck by lightning.

Before the thought even came to my mind about what to do, Serana ran to the boy’s side and began administering her version of CPR. It was barely different from what I knew from television and movies. She pounded his chest with her fist, and she blew into his mouth while holding his nose.

She must have continued for several minutes. While an older man cried at the boy's side, Serana assured him and others that the boy still lived, and that his heart was not beating properly. I was still amazed that Serana knew how to do this, and also amazed that she cared enough to help.

As a shock to us all, the boy shot up with a heavy gasp and grabbed Serana.

“ _Tuz!_ ” he shouted at her, wide-eyed with fright. He said nothing else, only stared.

Serana, seemingly ill at ease with the boy’s strong hold on her, freed herself from his grasp and returned to Altanir’s side. The boy stared at her, and then fixed his gaze on me before appearing to faint. I ran up to him and immediately began to heal what must have been systemic injuries. The man who might have been the boy’s father ripped away the destroyed leather top to reveal threaded dark lightning scars and swaths of pink flesh all the way down his torso and beyond. I had thought the boy had been struck on his head, but his fluffy blond hair was unharmed. Perhaps the lightning had traveled up from the ground.

“ _Tuz_ ,” the boy whispered after slipping back into consciousness.

The word meant nothing in Norren, that I knew of. The older man had no reaction to it, either.

As the healing magic swirled around the boy’s body, the scars left behind by the lightning altered. Cooked flesh faded from dark pink to pale, and the forked scars on his body appeared to fade entirely. What remained was disjointed, and only on the left side of his face.

When I saw it, when I truly saw it, I could barely believe my eyes. I sat back on my feet and stared in awe.

“Oh my gods,” I whispered.

In the place of where before were lightning fractals, emblazoned on the boy’s cheek and flowing down from eye to jaw, were the cuneiform-like draconic letters which spelled out the word “ _tuz_ ”.

I recalled the word well, now. The same runes were emblazoned on Dawnbreaker, wherever she was.

“It’s Kyne,” I said, softly, barely audible to myself. I rubbed my ears.

“What is?” the older man asked.

My hand was shaking when I reached out to the boy, who was barely conscious. I traced a line down his cheek, and turned his head so that the man could see what I saw.

“This,” I said. “This is from Kyne. It is a dragon word. A Word of Power. It means ‘blade’.”

The boy reached up to grasp my wrist. His pale eyes pleaded. He said nothing. I didn’t know what to do.

“Are you in pain?” I asked, voice trembling.

A moment later, the boy weakly shook his head.

“I’m getting him out of here,” the older man said before hoisting the boy over his shoulder and making his way toward the gate.

“Deb,” I heard Stenvar call. “Come ‘ere.”

I did what I was told. I stood, and shambled my way to Stenvar. Before him, sitting on the ground and propped up against the city wall, were the dark-haired shieldmaiden and a man with an impressive, curly silver mane with a beard to match. Both of them had lightning fractal scars nearly identical to that of the boy.

“How many people were hit?” I asked Stenvar.

“I don’t know,” he said, louder than necessary. Perhaps his hearing was dulled too. “At least these two, and the boy. I’m sure others would have said something.”

As I knelt down to heal the two injured soldiers, I heard people pass by as they entered the city. I wish they had stayed away. I still felt ill at ease regarding the vampires I knew were hiding, waiting. I hoped the rest of our army did not think we had won. This fight was absolutely not over.

The scars on these soldiers healed in the same way, and soon letters were revealed on their cheeks as well. On the woman’s cheek sprawled the longer word of ‘ _krein_ ’, and the older man with the curly hair was branded with the more simple ‘ _ag_ ’.

“Are you in any pain?” I asked them.

“What!?” the man shouted, obviously not hearing well. He palmed his left ear several times.

The woman grunted. “A bit. Like a punch to the chest.” Her voice was hoarse.

So they could speak. Why couldn’t the boy speak properly? Perhaps he took the brunt of the bolt’s force.

“What happened?” the woman asked.

Stenvar crouched beside me.

I bit my tongue, literally, before speaking. Though there was no doubt in my mind what had happened, I had absolutely no idea why. Why would Kyne brand people? Why with these words? Was it a blessing, or a punishment?

“I think Kyne marked you,” I told them. “The lightning scars, they’re gone. I don’t—I don’t know how. I didn’t think those ever healed. But all I can see are words, written in the letters of dragons, of ancient Nords.” I nodded at the woman. “On your cheek, you have the word ‘ _krein_ ’, which means ‘sun’. And on yours,” I nodded at the man, “the word ‘ _ag_ ’, ‘burn’.”

The two of them felt their cheeks and stared at nothing, expectedly in shock. Perhaps the man still didn’t hear me.

“I can hear a voice,” the woman muttered. “Saying that word, I think. ‘ _Krein_ ’, you said?” She looked at me. “Over and over again. _Krein, krein, krein_. And I know that you’re right, that it means ‘sun’. How do I know this?”

“It is a feeling,” the man said, his accent thick, northern. He had indeed heard me, but like Stenvar had to raise his voice to hear himself, or think himself heard. “I feel this word. I know it.” He looked at the woman. “But I do not know yours. I do not hear it. Only the one sound – ‘ _ag_ ’ – is inside my head. I almost cannot hear all else over it.” Again, he ran his fingers over the slash-and-dot scars on his cheek.

I recognized my own experience in their words – the knowing – when learning new words from Kyne or when I absorbed my first dragon soul. But this was not how a Dragonborn was made. No. This was something different. Different, yet similar. Kyne had given Words of Power to these people for a reason. Words of Power that they felt, that they knew, now. They understood dragon-speak. Like the Greybeards.

Could Kyne have made these people Tongues?

I gasped. “The boy.” Frantic, I turned to Stenvar. “Find the boy, the one who was struck. His father took him out of the city. Go!”

Without questioning me, Stenvar bolted for the city gate.

“What’s going on?” the woman asked, still weary.

“Don’t worry about it right now,” I said. “Just rest, but stay alert. There are vampires within the city, still.”

“You’re right,” said a man behind me.

I turned around slightly to see, out of the corner of my eye, a tattered mage’s robe, singed in places and splattered with blood and other mess.

“I know I am,” I said in response, not needing backup. I could feel the seething hatred of the vampires that waited in the shadows and houses and other structures. I wanted to know what kept them from attacking. Whatever it was, it could not be good.

The mage, still standing behind me, laughed.

I knew that laugh.

When I stood and spun around, I found myself looking down at the ash-dusted, smiling face of Marcurio.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. Sorry about the long delay between updates. I've been both busy and otherwise incapable of writing. My cat died a little while back and after that I kind of just checked out of a lot of things. Been burying myself in World of Warcraft. Anyway, I'm starting to feel normal again. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long to be written.


	30. Chapter 30

“What are you doing here?” I asked Marcurio. Terror raked my lungs and I took in a quick sequence of ragged breaths. “The children!” I whispered.

“The children are fine,” he said. “Everyone was fine when we left the fort. I knew they would be safe. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think so.”

Breaths came easier, somewhat. “Did you get my letter? No,” I said, looking away. “It’s too soon.”

“Letter?”

I waved it off. “Nevermind. Marc, why? Why come? Please tell me Bird knows you’re here.” I could imagine the fury if Marcurio had slipped away without informing his husband beforehand.

The mage simply chuckled. “Yes, Bird knows I’m here. I came up with the troops. I knew I could help. Not many mages have experience in battle, and though my spells are weak, I can still heal.”

I breathed deep, and cupped the man’s face between my hands. As I pulled him in for a hug, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Damn it, Marc.”

He laughed.

While I held my friend to me for some much-needed human contact, Stenvar scurried toward us with the comatose teenager carried between him and the boy’s father. They placed him onto the ground next to the other two newborn Tongues.

“He’s breathin’,” Stenvar said. “Still out, though. Kyne’s touch must’ve been too much for ‘im.”

Kyne’s touch. Blessing. Curse.

“What do ya think the goddess wants of them?” my sellsword friend asked as Marcurio knelt at the boy’s side.

“To be Tongues, I think,” I told him, quietly. The look he shot me confirmed that he had heard me, and that he understood. He was, after all, the first person to tell me what Shouting was; no doubt he also knew about Tongues. “There were none left, that I know of, save for Jarl Balgruuf I suppose, and me. They were all killed at High Hrothgar. The two, this man and woman, they hear in their minds what I heard in mine. The dragon words. The boy probably heard a word too, the one he shouted. So, unless they were also made Dragonborn… they are Tongues.”

Stenvar turned to the three warriors, one of whom he knew. “Are you alright, Josse?” he asked the dark-haired shieldmaiden. She nodded. He then made a thoughtful sound, and crossed his arms. “Kyne has given them to you,” he said, turning back to me. “There are three.” His grey eyes were serious, and his gaze lingered long enough for me to grow uncomfortable.

“Three,” I repeated, unsure where his thoughts were leading.

Again he turned to the new Tongues. “Three words,” he elaborated. “From what I’ve learned, there are always three words.”

Three words? Three. Always three.

A Shout.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” I whispered in English.

Stenvar chuckled. Perhaps he had heard me say those words before. Perhaps the epiphanous, breathy sentiment was universally understood.

“Stenvar,” I said, grasping his upper arm. “It’s the Shout. The one I used at Windhelm. Oh, gods….”

I searched the crowd for Altanir, who had been found by Krikit. Krikit was alive. I took in a deep breath and felt a wave of relief wash over me. I hadn’t realized how stressed my subconscious had been, worrying about that damn dog.

“Altanir,” I called as I walked over to him. “It was Kyne. She marked these three people with words. _Krein, tuz, ag_. Sun, blade, burn. Those are the words, Altanir. The ones I used here, before. I—I can feel it. It’s the Shout – the light.”

“Oh, Red, wow.”

I then approached Serana and spoke softly into her ear. “You need to go. Leave the area. Now. This Shout could kill you.”

The vampire looked to Altanir, who nodded. “Come on, boy,” Altanir said to Krikit. The dog gave me a slurp before following the pair out of the city gates.

After allowing myself a moment to breathe deeply, I returned to Stenvar and the Tongues. Finally, the youngest was awake. I joined Marcurio at the boy’s side.

“Are you alright?” I asked him.

The boy took a moment, but then nodded. He looked bewildered, and in pain.

“What is your name?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips tight.

“Therodyn,” answered the boy’s father a moment later. “His name is Therodyn.”

I looked to the father and then the boy. “Can he not speak?”

“He can,” the father said. “He could. I-I don’t know why….” Tears were welling in the man’s eyes.

“Therodyn,” I said. The boy looked up at me. “Do you still hear that word – _tuz_ – in your head? Do you know what it means?”

He gazed at me a moment before nodding.

“Try to speak it,” I suggested.

The thought seemed to pain the boy. A moment later, he sat up with his father’s help, and looked to me before closing his eyes. Therodyn took in a deep breath, and exhaled the word.

“ _Tuz._ ”

The father gasped. “Why can he only speak this word?”

Why, indeed. The handicap made no sense. The Greybeards who did not speak could not only because their voices were too powerful. Arngeir was powerful, too, but he, like Paarthurnax, had learned to harness that power. It took years for Arngeir to accomplish this. But to only be able to speak Words of Power by default, and for no ostensible reason, was simply odd. In the end, what Therodyn could _not_ do did not matter.

“I don’t know,” I said to the father. “But I have a feeling it is not only this word that he can speak. Therodyn,” I continued, the boy opening his eyes to me. “I want you to try to speak three words, in order, loudly. _Krein, tuz, ag_. I want you to try and shout them, as if your voice could kill. _Krein tuz ag_. Sun blade burn. These are Words of Power. Feel them. Know them. Shout them. Shout them with all of your strength. _Krein tuz ag._ Sun blade burn. See the vampires burning, in your mind. _Krein tuz ag._ ”

“What will happen?” the father asked.

I smiled warmly at the man. “Either nothing, or, everything. But it cannot harm us.” I looked to Therodyn. “The Shout will not harm us, I promise you. But you need to try. _Krein, tuz, ag_.”

And try he did. The effect of the Shout comprised a localized thunderous boom and a brief, blinding light. Therodyn’s father had covered his ears with his hands, as had Stenvar and Marcurio. The murmuring of the onlookers grew louder and louder.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” muttered Neriwen from the crowd.

“Again with the Shouting, Deb,” Marcurio whined, rubbing his left ear.

I chuckled, forgetting about that aspect. My ears were now immune to a Shout’s auditory force. Oops.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Stenvar asked. “What you used before.”

I stood. “Yes, Stenvar. This is the Shout I used before I had to leave Windhelm when it was first attacked. I-I’ve been….” I was shaking, somewhat, still amazed that Kyne was helping, and that she saw fit to wait until now to tell me the words, those three stupid words I had been meditating on ever since I first used them in a moment of desperation. True Need. It had never occurred to me that the words were related to the runes on Dawnbreaker.

_Dawnbreaker!_

“My sword!” I looked to those around me. “Where is Dawnbreaker?”

After a moment of silence, a small voice chirped from the crowd. “Here.”

A young woman, perhaps only a teenager, wearing a ragged dress and a broad, protective leather belt, approached with not only Dawnbreaker, but also my mask. A sword was sheathed at her side.

“I found them after the lightning,” she said, offering the objects to me with a humble smile.

I accepted them with the same. “Thank you.”

“What is going on?” shouted a familiar, commanding voice. Isran. He had entered through the city gates, a dozen or so people at his back. “Why has the attack stopped?” He looked over the crowd that had grown around the Tongues, and his gaze halted at the older man with curly hair. “Gartharr?” he called to him, approaching. “What’s happened?”

“There was a lightning strike, Commander,” said a woman in the crowd. “None injured, but….”

Isran looked to me, his silver eyes accusing me of something terrible. He then looked back to the Tongue, named Gartharr, and grasped his shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked him softly.

Gartharr patted Isran’s hand and then made to stand, accepting Isran’s help. “I am fine. We are all fine.” The man turned to offer his hand to the shieldmaiden, Josse, who accepted it.

Therodyn looked around him, and decided to stand too.

And there they were, before me, our secret weapon, the bearers of a lost Nord art. Strong, experienced, and bright, all three of them brought something different to the fight. Thunder cracked above us and the rain came down hard again. We were already drenched.

“You saw what those three words Kyne has given us can do,” I said to the three Tongues, speaking loudly over the rain. “Josse, Therodyn, Gartharr: Kyne has made you Tongues, gifted you with Words of Power. The Shout she has given us is a weapon against the undead. I have used it before. The light will burn nearby vampires and will turn them to ash. I want to see you use the Shout. I want to know you can use it without hesitation. This is your weapon, now. Your swords and shields are backup. Use your Voice as a weapon. _Krein, tuz, ag._ Shout the words. _Krein tuz ag!_ ”

The Shout blasted around me, and people gasped. Again I failed to warn anyone of the oncoming verbal thunder. It didn’t matter. If these warriors and mages were going to fight alongside Tongues, they needed to know what to expect. It was better to already be a little bit deaf.

“Shout it!” I hollered at the Tongues.

And they did. Isran got an earful of Gartharr’s Thu’um; Therodyn’s father had learned enough to step back a ways. An orb of golden light exploded in a sphere from all three of the Tongues, each orb two or three meters wide.

“Again!”

The Shouts successfully ignited once more.

“Enough!” Isran cried. He groaned as he massaged his forehead. “Are you saying Gartharr and these two are now Dragonborn?”

“No, Isran. Not Dragonborn. Tongues. I did not think they could learn a Shout so quickly, but perhaps Kyne is helping them. She is here,” I said, looking up, and then to Stenvar. “Everyone was right. She is here.” Turning back to Isran, I added, “And I know now how to win back Windhelm.”

 

Each Tongue went separately about the city, accompanied by a large party of warrior and mage. Marcurio accompanied Gartharr and Isran. Neriwen and Stenvar stayed with me.  Each mage would detect undead, and extinguish remaining fires.

Each party was to comb the city house by house, alley by alley, until no trace of undead presence could be sensed by spell or Shout. I could only hope that Serana had stayed far, far away. Her illusion could fool a spell that detected the presence of undead, but could not ward her against anti-undead magic.

Hours passed, and the sky grew darker. The rain eventually did stop, but was soon replaced by a light snow. We repeated the process several times, just to be sure. Eventually we discovered a sort of underground sewer system in which a few hundred vampires were hiding, waiting. They did not last long. Though these vampires were fast, light was faster, and we now wielded four walking beacons of holy light.

At whatever hour it was for me to become hungry, my group approached a small cemetery, and what I recognized as the city’s Hall of the Dead. There was no life inside, as well as no unlife, and yet, a knot in my stomach replaced the growing ache of hunger.

The Hall of the Dead was where jarls were laid to rest, forever. Ulfric Stormcloak was inside.

Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced was inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krein Tuz Ag = (fabricated Shout) “Sun Blade Burn”


	31. Chapter 31

The shrouded body of a large person was still on a stone prepping slab in one area of the Hall. The priestess who worked here was not inside; hopefully she was alive, somewhere. The room smelled of chemicals and death. Last I was in here, it smelled worse, with there being a recently deceased, mutilated woman on this very slab. I kept my distance.

Stenvar took it upon himself to peek under the linen shroud. I watched in silence, waiting for confirmation. I knew it was Yrsarald who lay here, but I did not want to believe my own senses. I wanted it to be some other mountain of a man. Someone else’s dead lover. I allowed myself this selfishness.

“It’s him,” said my sellsword friend. He lowered the shroud corner and stepped back.

For whatever reason, Yrsarald had never been moved to his final resting place, what would have been a sort of bunk carved into the cave-like Hall. I wondered if his body was even fully prepped for his eternity amongst other jarls. This body was definitely embalmed, though; if it had not been, even in this chilled cellar the smell of decay would have been unbearable.

“Do you want to look for yourself?” Stenvar asked. “He doesn’t look that bad. They sewed up the wounds.”

Yes. No. No. I knew what Yrsarald looked like, and I believed my instincts and Stenvar’s word that this was him. I would not, could not look upon him in death. I needed my memory of his face to be of him alive, even if his final moments were not peaceful.

“Give me a moment,” I breathed. Stenvar did not hesitate to leave the room. I heard the main Hall door open and close.

I stared at the shroud for a long time. Stood and stared. When the tears came I welcomed them. I wanted my vision to be blurry for this.

Quietly crying, I approached the slab. With a trembling hand, sapphire engagement ring glistening against the torch light, I reached out to his face. His smiling face, blue eyes bright with hope and wonder. His red-brown hair, slightly disheveled, would have been decorated with gold beads. Little braids in his beard.

My fingertips grazed the linen, feeling not the cloth but his scruffy cheek and jaw. My palm swept over his forehead. My fingers would have gotten caught in his hair. He loved having his hair stroked, and stroking mine. Hair retained a person’s scent, when not washed and smothered by fragrant oils. Hair was how he breathed me in.

I felt the curve of his shoulder, the length of his arm. I felt fingers. I would have grasped them. He would have kissed my palm.

I would have felt his warmth through his decorative jarl’s garb. So fancy. He secretly loved it. Everything but the fancy shoes. He hated the shoes.

I heard his whining. I managed a laugh. A laugh through tears ongoing.

“I’m here, Yrsa,” I choked out. “I came home.” My sinuses were clogged; breathing was awkward.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his forehead, and then to his mouth. I felt him kiss back. A warm, slow, sleepy kiss. Hovering over his tired but smiling face, I whispered, “I’m home, _unastin_. But I need to say goodbye to you. I need to do this, for me, and for you.” I would have caressed his tear-dampened cheek with my thumb.

“They wanted to keep you here, forever. With your war-brother, and the other jarls. But I know you. I know what you want. And I will give it to you. I will give you your peace.”

A round of sobs took over me. Shaking, I collapsed onto Yrsarald’s body. What would have been his warm body. He would have held me until I stilled. I would have been calmed by his steady heartbeat.

While I stood, my upper body rested on his chest, I looked downward to where his long feet peaked the shroud. I sniffled, and told him, “You have a son, Yrsa. We named him Virald. Sanctuary protector. A family of protectors.” I laughed. “He looks exactly like you. A small Yrsarald. Just like you. I will give him your name as his own. Yrsaraldsen. You will be with him, that way. And I will do everything that I can to protect him. Even if that means dying, myself.”

My back began to ache from the awkward position, and I stood straight. My tears had wetted the shroud over his chest. It was dark, underneath. A dark tunic, perhaps. Maybe even velvet.

“Dragonfire burns hot,” I told him. I would have caressed his hair once more. “It will be over, soon.” I gave him one final kiss through the shroud.

“I hope you find peace. I want nothing but peace for you, my love. You don’t have to wait for me. We wanted nothingness after death, remember? If you want to go, I will not be angry. But if you do decide to wait, perhaps I will see you again. Perhaps very soon.”

I wiped away my tears and cleared my throat. I longed for a handkerchief.

Reaching behind my neck, I unclasped the amulet of Mara. I delicately laid out the hefty necklace on my fiance’s chest, the two ends falling past his shoulders toward the slab.

“Goodbye, Yrsarald Geiraldsen.” I bit my tongue to fend off more tears. “I forgive you for what happened. I know it was not your fault, that you tried to warn me in the end. I hope you can forgive me, too. Your death, and Ulfric’s, will be avenged. I swear it.”

I swept my palms over my face again and left the Hall.

. . . . . .

Yrsarald’s body was carried by half a dozen men to the main square in the front of the city. A wooden pyre was constructed. Dragonfire illuminated the faces of all who looked on. Stenvar sang a dirge. He seemed to know a lot of dirges.

I watched the pyre burn until the last ember cooled. It took insistence from Altanir for me to drink water and eat some bread, but mainly I sat, silent, and stared. I knew others were there, too, watching the fire, watching me watch the fire. They didn’t matter. Only Yrsarald mattered. It was still snowing. The cold felt appropriate.

Isran had his city. His. There was no one else left who wanted it. Everyone insisted that I was jarl now and should claim that right, but the jarlship was not for me. I had a duty, and my duty was bigger than one single city half burnt to the ground and empty of citizens.

 

When there was nothing left in the center of the square but charcoal and ash, I approached. The amulet I had given Yrsarald for his journey had melted into a warped smudge of blackened gold. With it I collected the black and grey dust, sweeping them into an empty old satchel. I collected what ashes and bits of bone that I could. Part of Yrsarald would no doubt remain on this plaza for some time. Seemed fitting. I would later put everything into the river south of the city. Yrsarald would re-enter nature, and the necklace would remain his, and only his, forever.

Finished, I stood to see onlookers still staring at me. Silent. Waiting.

A hand found my shoulder. Stenvar. He smiled gently. “They’re waiting for you to claim the city, you know.”

I almost groaned. “I don’t want it, Stenvar. I cannot be jarl. Let the people have a vote if they want, but it cannot be me. Anyone of any intelligence knows it cannot be me.”

The man chuckled and cupped my cheek with his palm. “I know, sweetheart. I know you don’t want it. But I think I know who might.”

Stenvar’s gaze shifted to his left, to Isran. A crowd had surrounded him. Some of them I recognized. Altanir was among them. Serana was not. I hoped she was alright.

But before I could make my way to the leader of the Dawnguard, I was approached by several people, and then more, and more. They formed an arc around me, each and every one of them taking to one knee. A wave of people shrinking in height accumulated around me. Several people standing near Isran abandoned his crowd to join mine.

Torches illuminated the army in patches. Some mages had sent up orbs of light. Near the front of the crowd were the three Tongues, Josse, Therodyn, and Gartharr. Their expressions were neutral. Everyone’s expression was neutral.

Were they bowing? Surrendering? What did it mean in Skyrim to kneel on one knee before another person?

I looked behind me. Neriwen, who was holding my mask, with Marcurio had joined Stenvar, and the three of them, smirking, followed the crowd in taking a knee.

Across the mob I again found Isran. His expression was hidden by the near-darkness. What if he did want the city, to be jarl? What if?

What if.

I considered what I should say. I had no experience in politics. And though I knew how to be democratic, being unfamiliar with cultural customs could easily offend masses.

“Say something!” Marcurio hissed.

To buy myself a moment, I held my right hand high and formed an orb of Magelight. The crowd cheered. Why were they cheering? I lowered my hand, but they kept cheering.

Cries of ‘Dragonborn’ and ‘Jarl’ and ‘Deborah’ and ‘Skyrim’ intermixed and carried on for much longer than I would have liked. I was tired. I was sad. I had to pee.

I needed to shut them up, but no one would have heard me yell over this chorus. And so, I Shouted.

A small blast of dragonfire barreled upward toward the clouds, and the crowd finally quieted.

I inhaled, and began my speech.

“This fight is _not_ over!” I stared at their mix of expressions for a moment. “We needed Windhelm, and now we have it, but this is not where we hang our swords and make ourselves comfortable. We must protect this city, yes; we need it to easily travel between the north and south in the east. But Torug is still out there!” I said, pointing to my side with Dawnbreaker. “And we think we know where. I will not lead you there; I am not a leader. Like the rest of you I will look to those who have lead us to here, to this victory. I will look to the Dawnguard, and to Isran.”

Still far to my left, Isran stood next to Altanir, both of them unreadable.

I continued. “More than just the Dawnguard fought today, have been fighting. But it was the Dawnguard that was ready for this war, the Dawnguard who have been training to hunt and kill vampires for many years.”

I left my position at the front of the crowd and walked over to Isran. The plaza filled with rustlings and murmurs as the venerators stood.

Finally close to the leader of the Dawnguard, I could read Isran’s expression – annoyance. I was then very glad I had decided to ask him a very important question before announcing anything to this army.

“Isran,” I began, quietly, “the city is yours, if you want it.”

His furrowed brow smoothed, and eyes widened. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I was the intended of the last Jarl of Windhelm. I also killed him. My sword entered his lungs before Altanir finished him. I am Jarl of Windhelm. I do not want to be Jarl. I cannot be Jarl. I am asking you if you want to be Jarl of Windhelm, or at least be its steward. A steward can rule as a jarl can. A steward can place people he trusts in this city to keep it safe while we finish this war. When we win, then the people can vote on a new jarl. But my vote goes to you, today.”

Isran’s eyes narrowed, and then relaxed. He turned his head slightly but kept his gaze on me. “You’re serious.”

“I am, Isran. Make what is left of this city a place for the Dawnguard to live and train. They can rebuild, recruit. I cannot promise that other jarls will be happy about this, if they even still live, but I can promise you my support. Perhaps it is better to be steward, if only to avoid the anger of other jarls. Isran, Windhelm is a fort, just like yours in the south, but bigger.” I grasped the man’s shoulder briefly. “Use it.”

The silver-eyed Redguard deliberated. He looked to his nephew. He cradled his chin in his hand and hummed in thought. A long moment later, Isran lowered his hand and extended it to me.

Smiling, I followed suit, and we clasped forearms.

“You will allow me complete control of the city?” he said in a questioning tone.

“I will. But do not think this gives the Dawnguard power over all of Skyrim. We will look to you, always, when vampires and the undead are a danger, but there are other people in power to answer to, and to negotiate with.”

Isran laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m too busy to be a king.”

I smirked. “Good.”

Satisfied, I turned to the crowd. After a moment, they quieted, and I spoke loud enough for all to hear.

“Just as I cannot be your leader in this war against Torug and his vampires, I cannot be the Jarl of Windhelm. My place is with you, at your side, and always will be. Instead, I charge the Dawnguard as protectors of Windhelm, and their leader, Isran, as its steward. They will guard these walls and rebuild,” I proclaimed, gesturing to Isran, “and from this city they will protect all of eastern Skyrim long after I bring back the sun!”

Cheers. Many cheers. If there was any dissent from this crowd I could not hear it. Naturally, some people would not be happy. Possibly Nords. There was no pleasing everyone.

None of that mattered. Windhelm needed protection, and Skyrim needed the Dawnguard. Isran certainly knew how to govern, and I had no doubt he could restore Windhelm to its – well, not glory, but anything more than a heap of fire-cracked stones would be acceptable. After all, rumor was he restored Fort Dawnguard, back in the day.

The crowd continued cheering and otherwise celebrating, but I did not linger. I walked past them all, out of the city gates, and made my way back to the cart where I left my knapsack.

. . . . . .

Krikit and Serana sat together in the lonely camp. Before I neared, I heard her murmuring something to the dog. I would have thought him wary of the undead, but Serana’s illusion might have fooled him. Or, he simply did not fear her. She wasn’t all that scary, after all.

“Saved the day, then?” Serana asked before I approached, without even looking to see who was behind her. She likely smelled me. “I killed a few rats as they fled the city. They are fast.” She laughed through her nose. “I am faster.”

I chuckled, climbed up the back of the cart, and proceeded to lie down. The evergreen tree above saved me from the brunt of the snowfall. Was it still Frostfall? No, it was likely Sun’s Dusk, now. Earth’s November. The month I had entered this land.

I have been in Skyrim for four years.

“Day, night,” I said, “whatever this is, I helped. I only helped. Kyne did most of the work. The others did most of the work.”

“You appreciate yourself far too little,” said Serana. She turned her head to me. In the darkness I saw only the brief glow of one of her eyes, but I imagined her smirking.

I let out a long, weary sigh. “I’m going to set up a tent.” I sat up and looked at the dog. “Want to help?”

Krikit jumped to his feet and barked.

 

In the semi-quiet seclusion of a pup tent, Krikit and I rested. I stroked his soft but dusty coat, thanking any god who was listening for his survival. For my survival. For our victory.

I asked for one more.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels song for second section is "Paperweights" by Roo Panes.

Sixty-seven dead. Dozens upon dozens wounded. Out of hundreds, that seemed both fortunate and auspicious, considering far more vampires had been killed, according to several accounts. Still, that was a plethora of wounds to treat, and sixty-seven lost lives; sixty-seven less people who would help us attack Torug, and dozens who would have to remain in Windhelm to recover. The numbers felt much too high, in that respect.

Most of our fighters had fallen outside the city, and so it was by the destroyed stables where their mass pyre was constructed. I was asked to ignite the pyre, and I complied. As the flames roared, their names – those that were known – were stated. At the end of the list, a summation of “and eight brave souls” was given for those bodies unrecognized, or unrecognizable.

We did not wait for the embers to cool before breaking camp.

Riders were sent to camps and cities. Our present army, additional stationed troops, and anyone willing to fight were to gather west of Solitude, somewhere in Haafingar. A select few were to remain in Windhelm and any other station to avoid its loss.

There was no time for rest, now. First Winter was here, and Second Winter was coming. If we delayed, we risked allowing an entire country to starve. We needed this war to be over come springtime when people would have a chance to forage.

From Windhelm we would take the direct path west. There were camps along the way to resupply stores of food. The riders branched out in four directions, to Winterhold, Whiterun, Falkreath, and Fort Dawnguard. Once all troops were accounted for, we would devise an attack.

Serana had explained everything to Isran about her family’s land and castle. We would need boats, and a lot of them. Horses were not necessary, and would only be a nuisance. Siege tactics were our best bet, as were archers and magic. But magic, unfortunately, was something we had a deficit in. Serana also knew of secret passages into the castle. If still accessible, she would be able to attempt an infiltration. An infiltration would allow warriors to attack with less of a reliance on magic. An infiltration would allow me and Serana to make our way directly to Torug if he was indeed at this castle.

The possibility that Torug was elsewhere was obvious to all, but we would never be able to know until we searched the castle. He was untraceable by magic, and though Serana and I both could sense him, we could not do so from a large distance. Nevertheless, Serana would send herself on reconnaissance. If the castle was heavily guarded, we could assume Torug was inside.

Isran had his reservations about trusting Serana. He had flatly stated to her face that she could easily warn Torug about our imminent attack. She had then called him an asshole and promptly left our little meeting.

 

I shared a cart with the three Tongues, Therodyn’s father, and Krikit. On our journey we busied ourselves discussing all things Thu’um, Greybeard, and Kyne. I told them that I did not know much of anything about being a Tongue, only that it generally took years for them to properly learn Shouts. Kyne had definitely sped up this process for them, at least in regards to this one Shout. Josse, whose actual name was Jodis, and Gartharr too voiced annoyance that they were being used by Kyne.

Unexpectedly, Therodyn was more at ease with what was happening to him. Though he could or would still not speak, we found ink and parchment for him. I asked him to tell us what it was like in regards to speaking his normal language, and why he could not manage to do so.

The young man described the feeling as a wall between thought and speech. He knew what he wanted to say, heard the words in his head, but for whatever reason, he could not form the words in lung or lip. I wasn’t sure about the actual medical condition, but the word ‘aphasia’ came to mind. Therodyn understood us, but could not produce Norren speech. He could still write, though. I found this odd, but I wondered if this was somewhat intentional, and if Kyne had meant for this to happen. I considered that Therodyn was destined to become a Greybeard, and that Kyne was putting him on the fast track to a life without speaking. I deliberated on whether or not to tell the boy this. In the end, I told him everything. He was not fazed by the news. His father, however, very much was.

“And what if we don’t want anythin’ to do with this after the war?” Josse asked.

“That is your decision. Even if this is what Kyne wants for you, you still have a choice. If, in the end, you decide to pursue a life as a Tongue or even as a Greybeard, then I suggest you speak with Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun. He studied with the Greybeards, and though it was a long time ago I think he would be happy to answer your questions.”

“Can we not speak directly with the Greybeards?” Gartharr asked. “Certainly they would meet us, if we are indeed Tongues.”

I gazed at him a moment before saying, “Because they’re dead, Gartharr. All of the Greybeards are dead.”

. . . . . .

Somewhere in The Pale, our troops camped for the night. Isran and some officers stayed in a nearby abandoned homestead, as did I. With me was Marcurio. We would share the single, small bed. Spooning, like old times. Krikit accepted the floor.

While Marcurio was out, I sipped a relaxing tea, and stared at Krikit, who stared back. He then rolled over onto his side and thrashed about, either scratching his back against the wood floor or playfully asking for rubs. I reached out with my foot to comply. He was happy.

“ _Tak, tak_ ,” came a soft, deep voice from the doorway. _Knock, knock._ Stenvar. There was no longer a door to this room. Still, he waited for an invitation.

I waved him in, and he walked directly to Krikit to take over belly rub duty. Sat on the floor, back against the wall, Stenvar invited Krikit over to him. The dog happily obeyed.

“I asked Marcurio to give us some time to talk,” Stenvar said, not looking at me.

My heart clamped down upon itself as my hands gripped both sides of the mug.

After a long silence filled only by a panting dog, Krikit left the room, perhaps intent on some food. Stenvar stared at the doorway for an eternity.

During the insufferable silence, the acuity of my other senses intensified. The air shifted, and emotions became palpable. I knew, or thought I knew what was coming, and willed with every fiber of my consciousness for Stenvar not to say the words. _Don’t do it_ , I thought. _Don’t you dare open that gate._

The sellsword drew out his breaths, inhaled loudly, and then sighed before finally speaking.

“I’m in love with you, Deb.”

The words hurt. _Damn you_.

“I have been for a long time,” he admitted. “I think you know that.”

My throat and eyes closed. Breathing was inconceivable.

“They’re all about you, the songs. Of course they are. And it’s more, so much more than just writin’ about a hero. I think you know that, too.”

Rustling. A presence settling itself next to me on the bed. The mug was taken from my hands and placed elsewhere. My fingers became entwined with another’s.

“This isn’t the right time,” he said. “I know that. It never was… and it never will be. But you need to know it, to hear the words. I love ya, Deb, in every possible way someone can love another. And I needed to tell you before anything happened to either of us. I know the gods are protectin’ ya, but—” he paused, and the mattress was jostled slightly “—this couldn’t wait any longer. I couldn’t take this to my grave.”

I listened in earnest.

“I don’t expect you to feel the same for me,” he continued. “I never did. But we have something, you n’ me. We’ve always had a bond. Nothing’s changed that, and nothing ever will. No matter what happens, today, tomorrow, I will gladly surrender my life if it means savin’ yours.”

Hands grasped my shoulders, and I reluctantly opened my eyes.

“There she is,” Stenvar said with a laugh. His sad eyes betrayed his smile.

I reached up, and with my palm cradled the man’s scarred left cheek. “It’s Meridia,” I said.

The man’s smile faded. His hands remained on my shoulders. “What is?”

“Our bond. She wanted us to be a team, to work together. Told me you would be my greatest supporter. What better way to do this than create a feeling of love?”

The revelation slowly sank in, and Stenvar’s expression settled into one of shock. He let go of my shoulders. “You don’t truly believe that.”

My mouth twisted into a sad, quivering smile. Tears welled in my eyes as I choked out, “I don’t know what to believe.”

I watched a tear roll down his face. Stenvar clutched my hand, held the palm firmly to the side of his face, and kissed the wrist. His brow was deeply furrowed, and eyes red and glistening. I couldn’t recall ever seeing Stenvar this upset.

I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I do love you, Stenvar. Meridia’s intention or not.”

A sob broke free from his strained mouth as he slowly curled forward. His head came to rest against my upper chest, below my chin. I held him to me, and together, we quietly cried.

“I love you,” I breathed, “but I am not whole. I am in pieces.” He sniffled, and I stroked his stubbled scalp. “My heart is in The Rift and in Sovngarde and Solstheim. A part of me was burned with Yrsarald. All that I have left, all that I feel now, is sadness and rage and duty. There are things that I must do, dangerous things, and I don’t know if I will survive.”

A partial lie. I was very likely to die.

“I need my good friend Stenvar Grey-Mane,” I told him. “I need a friend, more now than ever. I need you to be my rock.”

Stenvar sniffled again and sat up. “Your rock?”

I nodded. “Rock. Something solid. Support.”

The man thought on the meaning of my words for a moment. “I can’t be your ‘rock’ and your lover at the same time?”

I again caressed his cheek, briefly. “I can’t give you what you want,” I whispered. “Not right now.”

Stenvar lowered his gaze and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Not now,” he repeated with a small nod. It took another moment for him to look at me again.

I offered him a sincere smile. “Put all of this… energy… into the battle to come. Be my rock,” I said before kissing his forehead. “Stone Man.”

Stenvar chuckled at the literal meaning of his name.

Stone.

Perhaps this was his destiny.

My sellsword friend stood from the bed, planted his fists on his hips, and stared at the wall for a short time. Clearing his throat, he turned to me and said, “Alright, sweetheart. ‘Stone Man’ it is.” He looked as though he had more to say, that he wanted to do something, but he simply stood there, staring at the floor, one arm dangling and the other supported by a hip. He then cleared his throat again and left the bedroom.

A short time later, Marcurio returned, Krikit following. The Imperial said nothing to me, made no comment, but his lingering gaze said volumes. He knew, or thought he knew, what had just transpired.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said quickly before leaving the room to find a latrine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't already, give [this one-shot story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366429) from Stenvar's POV a read.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good feels song for this chapter is "I Of the Storm" by Of Monsters and Men

Marcurio ran his fingertips up and down my left forearm, caressing the faint parallel ridges that decorated my flesh like the neck of a guitar. The short lines were in different stages of healing, the cuts having been made at regular intervals over the last few weeks.

I could have lied to Marcurio after he saw them. He would have bought a claim that I was troubled and harming myself. But that lie could have escalated quickly, and nobody had time for unnecessary interventions.

Previously, the only people who knew were Altanir, Serana, Neriwen, Isran, and Savos Aren. These people I knew; these people could be trusted. And though Isran was certainly capable of using such knowledge to his advantage, no matter the cost, he also knew that any attempts to contain me for my own protection would end very, very badly for him. Instead of using me, he allowed and aided me to use myself by making sure I had access to healing potions, that the steel knives were clean, and that blood was not taken more often than my body could handle. Serana, acutely aware of how much blood a human body could withstand to lose, was also an invaluable aspect of this scheme.

My blood was being collected as a poison.

Before Windhelm, Neriwen had dipped her arrows and daggers in it. Altanir, his swords and throwing knives. The method proved effective, most of the time, according to my friends. Vampires were either turned to dust or severely pained, or both, death taking a few moments in most cases. Apparently drinking the blood resulted in a higher dose, immediately lethal. Vampires poisoned by arrows received a more acute dosage than those harmed with a blade, as the coatings on blades wore off over time. For this reason, Neriwen and Altanir carried several vials of my blood.

Serana steered clear of any direct contact, but having some experience with alchemy, taught Altanir how to prevent the blood from clotting or drying, keeping it liquid. No doubt this was knowledge she had used in her past, a way to keep her food viable.

Now Marcurio knew my secret, but only as much as he had to, in light of seeing my scars. My blood was a weapon. It was deadly to vampires. He didn’t need to know about the Bow of Auriel. Not yet. Not until we had a bow to cleanse with my holy bodily fluids.

No one else needed to know about my imminent death until it was truly imminent.

“Do they hurt?” Marcurio asked, spooning me in the small bed.

“Now? No. They only sting when the cut is made, and for a while after they are healed. I think it’s time for another cut, actually. Altanir might come here to do it while the others sleep.”

“Is this why you sent Stenvar away? You know I could have slept elsewhere.”

I sighed. “No, Marc, this isn’t why. There are many other reasons.”

Thankfully, that was all my friend said on the matter of Stenvar.

We should have slept, the pair of us, but instead we caught up on each other’s lives. Serana, Solstheim, Krikit, Frea, Brelyna and Jenassa, Thrynn. Bird, Flavia, Virald, Morgana, Asher, J’zargo and family.

Marcurio’s updates were far more upbeat.

As expected, a knock came at the doorframe. And, as expected, Krikit’s alert sequence was initiated, setting him off in a series of rapid, ear-piercing parks.

“ _Kfft_ ,” I ordered the dog, who promptly quieted.

The person standing in the doorway was Altanir, but he was not holding his pouch of blood-letting equipment.

“Hey, Red,” he said, groggy. “You’re needed in the camp.”

I pulled down the sleeves of my underarmor and followed the man without question, and Marcurio and Krikit followed me. As we meandered around pup tents, bedrolls, and campfires, I noticed we were headed in the direction of a rather large gathering north of the main road, at the northern edge of the temporary camp. My stomach knotted – newcomers.

Approaching, in the limited torchlight I began to see details and faces. Most of the people in the crowd were wearing robes, possibly mage robes, and most of the people in the incoming crowd were Dunmer. Several of them sparkled with dangling jewelry.

When I drew closer and saw Stenvar holding the shoulders of one of the Dunmer, I realized what I was staring at.

Telvanni.

Stenvar and Jenassa were deep in conversation by the time the woman saw and recognized me. Her somewhat pleasant expression shifted to something more neutral.

“Marc!” squealed a woman from the crowd, who waved and then ran toward us.

“Oh, gods. Brey!” Marcurio trotted up to meet his best friend, and I left them to their reunion.

Standing next to Stenvar, I looked upon the crowd of about twenty Dunmer. “You came,” I breathed in relief. “Thank you.”

Jenassa’s mouth twitched at one end. “It was not an easy task, convincing even these few to join us. Nor was it easy finding you. In the end, Brelyna had to track this one.” She motioned to Stenvar. “We hoped where he was, so would you be. And here you are.”

Isran was then standing to my other side. “Telvanni, I assume?”

“Indeed,” answered a short, older woman from the front of the crowd whose ornamented staff stood taller than she did. “We are here at the wishes of Brelyna Maryon,” she told Isran, “whose aid was requested by your Dragonborn. I am Master Fieruse Dran.” The woman turned to me. “Do we have your permission to share your camp?”

My camp. Funny. “Yes, of course,” I said, ignoring any acknowledgement that this was more Isran’s camp than mine. “And if anyone gives you trouble, send them to me.” I turned to Isran. “Or this one. His name is Isran. If you need anything, he can help you.”

Master Fieruse offered Isran and me a small nod before turning to her Telvanni mages and speaking in Dunmeri. The mages then dispersed, and Jenassa made her way to Brelyna, who was still clinging to Marcurio.

“We should sleep, Brelyna,” the warrior said to her lover.

The mage turned to Jenassa and smiled. “Yes, yes, I know.” She gave Marcurio a peck on the lips before making for Jenassa’s side. “I’m so tired!” she said with a small giggle. “We can talk tomorrow. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, Brey,” answered Marcurio. We shared a look, and in silent agreement headed back to the homestead for our own much needed rest.

. . . . . .

In a camp west of Solitude, the armies converged. The earliest troops to arrive constructed sections of slanted wood palisades, about two meters long each, along the western and southern borders, no doubt worried about attacks from those fronts. Perhaps they had planned on building palisades on all borders but ran out of time, or wood. I wondered if the blockade construction was more something to do than something necessary.

After arriving, I had a mind to visit the nearby Temple of Meridia, but to my surprise, the temple came to me. Darius and Sharash arrived at the camp two days after I did. The pair were still happily serving Meridia, and her temple was still free of malevolent spirits.

With them was a small band of battle-mages calling themselves the Golden Warriors, aptly named for their shared skill in Restoration magic. They carried silver weapons, several apiece, and each of them worshiped Meridia. Whether this worship was newfound or continuing I did not ask.

It became readily apparent that Sharash was the leader of these Golden Warriors, and deservedly so. She was fierce and powerful, charismatic, and wholly likeable; no wonder Darius married her. Most importantly, as a shaman, like Frea, Sharash’s power was undiminished. She could heal and cast strong fire magic, two of the most important types of spells in fighting the undead.

The Golden Warriors had no idea our armies were headed for the northwest, but were delighted to learn we had a plan. Nobody else had a plan. Sharash practically begged to accompany us to our destination.

 

Solitude, protected by its promontory location, was largely unharmed. Most importantly, the docks, south of the towering city, remained untouched. The army captains, Isran, and myself and Stenvar were led down a long series of steps from the cliffside, and my heart fluttered when we were greeted by a small armada of huge ships. The dockmaster explained that the ships, complete with crew, were temporarily granted to the Dawnguard by Jarl Elisif herself. She was also supplying us with several troops, food, and other necessities.

The dockmaster informed us that the winds were currently favorable for a journey to the northern sea, and between the army captains it was decided – we were to march our troops to the docks and leave at dawn.

. . . . . .

Stenvar stood by the warmth of a lit hearth, two squiggly babies cradled in his arms. Just two weeks ago, Stenvar’s cousin Olfina gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. I had guessed wrong on both the timing of the birth and the status of the fetus. Months ago, I had sensed only a single boy in her belly. At that time, Olfina had been huge with what I had assumed was an eighth-month belly, but rather she had been large due to the double occupancy of her womb.

The naming ceremony was held a week ago in the city’s temple to the gods. To Stenvar’s delight, his first cousins once removed – referred to as niece and nephew as per Nord custom – were named Vandir and Skaldara. A wanderer and a poet.

_Gee, I wonder where they got those name ideas!_

While Stenvar wasn’t the only family bard as Jon was accomplished now, too, he was certainly a wanderer and a ‘ _drenskald_ ’ – a warrior poet.

Stenvar, who loved children, was infertile. This was the apparent cause of his two divorces. He was estranged from both of his wives, and from his second wife’s child from a previous husband. Though the man had embraced his fate long ago, it was clear that he relished the company of infants and was overjoyed at the idea of being an uncle.

I was glad Stenvar had decided to pay his family a visit in the city. There was no telling if either of us would ever see them again, and Stenvar knew this. He claimed to feel it in his bones, that this would be his final battle. I told him he was nuts. What I didn’t tell him was that the end he was feeling was mine.

The two of us would spend the night in the modest house, me on the small spare bed and Stenvar happily accepting a bedroll. We would retire early, and rise well before dawn to meet the troops at the docks.

There wasn’t enough time to visit the palace, not that I particularly wanted to. Elisif would have learned of Yrsarald’s death, and from her, so too would have Galmar. Probably. It didn’t matter. I had no duty to Galmar, not anymore, and did not feel a need to visit with him, if he was even still alive. Galmar’s counterpart, Rikke, during the weapon-rest had been a political prisoner in Windhelm and was now either dead or missing. Elisif likely knew this and could have easily retaliated by killing Galmar.

_Am I awful for not caring? Nah. He was a dick._

What I did care about, at least to a small degree, was the politics. Was Elisif gunning to be High Queen? Did she know that many people were in support of Balgruuf to be High King? Hell, maybe the two of them were fixing to marry. Maybe they _should_ marry. Maybe Skyrim would be reinstated as an imperial province. Maybe I, as Dragonborn, was breaking protocol by not visiting the jarl of the town I was sleeping in. Was there a protocol for Dragonborns?

I ordered myself to stop thinking about monarchs and politics. None of that mattered, not now, nor would it matter ever again unless I did my job. And in order to do my job, I had to sleep.

 _Sleep, Deb. Sleep_.

In the early evening, tucked into my tiny, stiff bed, I let the dulcet tones of Stenvar’s deep snores and tiny banshee cries from the next room lull me into a quasi-slumber.


	34. Chapter 34

Volkihar. That was the name of Serana’s family, and of the castle Torug took over. It was a fortress more than just a castle, Serana made sure to note, along with any other information I needed to know. Whatever the clan name meant to Serana, I was certain it wasn’t ‘ _vol_ not hair’ or ‘ _vol_ not high’, ‘ _har_ ’ having both meanings. I knew that ‘ _vol_ ’ in dragonspeak meant something like ‘horror’. Modern Norren and Old Norren were not the same language.

“One blessing,” she concluded, “is that I am certain we killed all of the Ugly Ones when we were there to kill my father and his clan.”

I eyed her. “Ugly ones?” I imagined a slew of especially grotesque vampires, pig-nosed and covered in sores, that were particularly hard to kill.

“Ugly Ones. The Stone Beasts. Some creation of Molag Bal. They have a similar appearance to the vampire form of my father, but their skin is as stone.”

“Wait,” said Altanir. “Vampire form of your father?”

Serana nodded. “The form Molag Bal gave to Harkon as a symbol of their blood bond.” She quickly changed the subject. “The Stone Beasts pretend to be statues, guarding. They are weakened most by magic, which… is a concern for us, now.” Serana looked to her hands. “No matter. They are all or mostly dead.”

Part of me wanted Serana to elaborate on whatever this true form of her father was and if Torug was given the same, but I fought my curiosity. My anxiety thanked me.

“Could Torug have made more of these Ugly Ones?” asked Neriwen. “Or I mean, asked the Prince for them. They’re working together, right?”

 _Hello, anxiety_.

Serana did not sugar coat anything, ever. Perhaps this was a good thing.

The vampire hummed in thought for a moment before answering. “If you see a statue of an ugly beast, assume it will come to life and attack you. Arrows and daggers will likely do nothing but anger it. Fire and ice work well. We might want to attach ourselves to someone with a heavy battleax.”

“But metal does poorly against stone,” Stenvar noted.

“They are not truly stone,” Serana said, annoyed. “Anyone with a strong strike can harm one, particularly if they are distracted by magic.”

The conversation ended, leaving us to our imaginations and apprehensions.

The ship followed the swell of the sea and up and down we went as we sailed west. Many of us huddled in the spacious hold, safe from the frigid air and sea spray. Across from my group sat some young Dawnguard mages. They talked low. Most people did. Only a select few were battle-hungry and attempting to rally others. Those people were mostly Nords, and mostly above deck, perfectly comfortable with the cold.

One of the mages held out her hand, palm up, and stared at the ball of flame she produced. It was no bigger than a candle flame.

“Stop wasting it,” said another mage by her side.

“I was jus’ makin’ sure I had some left in me.”

“Save it anyway. Go to the staff when you’re out.”

“I wish I’d’ve trained in swords more,” another mage mumbled, clutching the hilt of her blade. “I wish I had a staff.” She glared at the mage who had a golden staff. It glimmered red, possibly indicating a fire enchantment.

I turned to Marcurio. He had been eyeing the mages as well. I tugged on his robe sleeve and asked, quietly, “Are all the mages so light on magic? Are you?” I knew it was the case with some mages, but I wondered just how many were running dry.

My friend stared a moment, unblinking. “It has been this way for a while now, Deb. Every mage is weakening, some faster than others. Those at the Fort received whatever weapons were available. Staves, swords and axes, bows. Some weapons are even enchanted. But enchantments fade, too. At least an unenchanted weapon is still a weapon, even staves.”

“And an unenchanted mage?” Neriwen quipped. “A mage doesn’t become a battlemage just because you give ‘em a sword. I hope they got good training along with those weapons.”

“They did,” Marcurio and Altanir said in unison. They exchanged an emotionless glance.

“You saw us train in Winterhold,” Altanir reminded Neriwen. “I imagine everyone elsewhere go the same.”

“Just how much magic do you have left in you, Marc?” I asked him. “You keep saying it’s weak, and I believe you, but I lost every bit of magical energy I had by the time I got to Solstheim. It was completely gone. The only reason I can cast any spells at all is because Meridia made certain that I found this mask.” I lowered my hand onto my knapsack. “Without it I would just be Shouts and a sword. Without Shouts, I would be dead. I have training in swords, perhaps as much as any other mage here. But I’m not very good. I’m lucky. I have the sword Meridia meant for me and only me to hold. I would let all mages put on this mask to restore their magic, but you already tried it,” I said, looking at Altanir, “so we know it works only for me.”

Marcurio crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his robe sleeves. Looking away, he said, “Windhelm might have taken more out of me than I would have liked. For me, I’m saving what energy I have left to heal others. I have enchanted jewelry, and this robe too, that help keep my magic working. Many of us also have one or two potions, either to increase spell power or help restore magical energy. But if the attack on this castle lasts for more than one or two days….” He didn’t finish his sentence.

“We have the Tongues now,” said Stenvar. “Josse said usin’ the Shout made her a bit tired but only after three or four times. Them three all have weapons to fall back on, though. And they’re trained. Would trust Josse and ‘er shield with my life. But I think it’s smart to separate you four. That Shout can kill what the mages can’t.”

Josse and Gartharr were above deck with the rest of the proper Vikings. I could hear them singing their war songs, muffled by wood and waves. Therodyn and his father sat elsewhere in the hold with another group, perhaps people they have been fighting with for some time. The pair of them were descended from High Rock folk, and like me, did not do well in the cold.

Altanir cleared his throat. “Let’s not forget we have the Telvanni now. Their magic, like Serana’s, an’ the orc — Sharash? — their magic is strong still. I don’t know what Isran is planning, but I would think the Telvanni will lead us into battle alongside a hoard of angry Nords.”

Most of the Telvanni sailed on another boat from this one, though they were split up fairly evenly. A smart decision, in the case of a boat sinking. I did not know the handful of Telvanni who sat in the hold and cabin of this ship; Brelyna was not among them.

“I don’t know if the Telvanni will lead,” I said, “but they are certainly able to cast spells that I have never even heard of. They are supposed to be able to control the undead. At least some of them. I think a lot of what they will do is more… support others. Controlling the enemy is a big part of that. I don’t know if it is better for them to separate or stay as one group. Perhaps their magic is stronger when they are near each other. I don’t know. Perhaps it is best for them to command themselves.”

Our group fell silent again. Raucous laughter from above did nothing to calm our nerves.

. . . . . .

Strands of my dry hair broke as I pulled it back into a low ponytail. The leather thong was no longer supple and I feared that it too would snap. I had extra thongs, along with potions, sitting in a small pouch tied to my belt. My mask hung around my neck by thick leather cord tied in a slipknot. My knapsack and cloak remained on the ship along with Krikit. I was cold, but the wet salty air had made the cloak weigh twice as much as it did dry, and I knew I would not have been able to fight while wearing it.

The misty shore of the island was silent but for waves and the settling troops. Despite Serana’s reconnaissance reports, we expected immediate defensive attacks or even an ambush. The shore had been completely void, just as Serana had said. We also expected the vampires to attack from under the water, damaging the ships or rowboats, or for them to hide under the waves until we were relaxed in the camp. None of that happened.

Serana’s solo reconnaissance mission proved that the castle was guarded, and that there were many vampires within the grounds. She could not get close enough to the castle to confirm Torug’s presence within, but the vampires who guarded the castle were definitely his children. His progeny. Her findings and instructions spread rapidly throughout the settling camp.

Don’t cast spells. Don’t light fires. Don’t speak above a whisper. Don’t run. The instructions were given to us well before setting sail, but it took being here on this island to fully appreciate their reasoning.

From the shore, the castle was completely invisible. An unnaturally thick fog made it near impossible to know there was even an island here. If Serana had not been with us in our leading ship, we would have crashed upon the rocks. But the fog was also our biggest advantage, at least for now. We were creatures lurking in the mist.

I wondered if Torug also knew the Shout that could clear fog and other weather temporarily. I was comforted by the knowledge that the Shout only cleared a relatively small radius around the shouter. Torug would have had to walk near to this shore before he would have been able to clear the fog to see if we were, indeed, on this shore. It was a catch-twenty-two in our favor.

The Shout that showed me life, however, that could be used from a very far distance, at least for me. I thought upon the Words of Power and the Shout activated. Standing at the edge of the camp, I stared back at the writhing mass of red. I could not sense each soul individually, however. Not with such high numbers. But I knew that our armies from the north, center, and south of Skyrim, together with the Telvanni, totaled upwards of six hundred people. It felt like a lot. It wasn’t.

I turned around and saw nothing but white. The red auras generated by the Shout, visible even behind solid rock, were no match for distance and fog. Another advantage. But while I could not see their auras I could sense them, the vampires. Their signature mixed with that of the army behind me and numbers became a simple sense of more versus less.

We had less.

If Torug knew this Shout, could he sense us? I could not separate his presence from the masses. But if he had harnessed the potential of _laas yah nir_ as I had, thanks to Paarthurnax, then it was possible he was sensing us right now. It was also possible that, as a vampire, Torug smelled us. Smelled me.

“Serana,” I called in a low voice after finding the woman in the camp. In a whisper, I continued. “Is it possible they know we’re here? Can vampires sense or smell mortals from far away?”

“Yes. It is possible. But I sensed some mortals inside the grounds. We can hope that this will cover us.”

“I don’t like hoping,” I told her.

“If it is any comfort to you,” she breathed into my ear, “I would not be able to smell you from within that castle. And if Torug is anything like my father, there will be a constant smell of blood in the halls. He would have to be halfway between the castle and the camp to distinguish you from any other mortal.”

Serana eyed me as she made her way to Altanir’s side. The pair of them disappeared into the mist.

 

Time was not our friend, here. We were told to expect an order to attack soon after we made it to the island. The longer we waited, the more opportunities the enemy would have to spot us. For all we knew the vampires made regular patrols of the island, though Serana saw no hint of this.

The signal for us to attack was a Shout of fire sent to the sky, ordered by Isran. And so we waited.

In speaking with Master Fieruse of the Telvanni, I understood that she instructed her mages to split up amongst the rest of the army. Her mages were as strong apart as they were together. Many of them could indeed shock, harm, or otherwise control the undead in a fashion similar to my and Stenvar’s swords. What I hadn’t thought about until Fieruse mentioned it, however, was the fact that the Telvanni could construct a ward wall. I had seen this magic at Tel Mithryn, but had not until now considered putting it to use here. The plan, Fieruse told me, was for each Telvanni mage to protect the Tongues and others with their wards as needed. This ward could become a dome, too, if magic or other projectiles threatened those near the caster. We made certain to pair up the Tongues and myself with a Telvanni mage; Brelyna insisted to be the one who accompanied me.

There was another option that Fieruse mentioned: a ward around the castle to prevent all from exiting or entering. The Telvanni could create passages, which other than allowing people in, would force vampires to exit at one specific location. A choke point. It was unfortunate that we could not starve out the vampires in true siege fashion. We wouldn’t have lasted a week.

Fieruse pointed out to me the assortment of siege equipment that were being transferred onto the shore – ladders mainly, and a few catapults. The catapults made me nervous.

“With the right spells,” the Telvanni Master said, “those machines, and most weapons, will be unnecessary. This fight will require a strong defense, which the Telvanni are giving you. With these Tongues you speak of, with you, the Telvanni also bring a strong offense. We will be on the front line with the ones who pray for death in battle,” she said with a smile. “And while they bash their shields with their swords and scream out curses, we will force the vampires to turn away, or turn upon each other.” The old woman chuckled low. “Either way, if we do well by you, no one will meet their gods today.”

I stared at Fieruse in awe. “Is it truly that simple for a Telvanni? To just… flick your wrist and cast a spell and send the undead away? Without tiring?”

“Oh, we will tire. Eventually. But, yes, it truly is that simple, as it would be for any mage who studies necromancy. Those who remained at Tel Mithryn, those who denied you help outright, they were fools, selfish. Our magic is stronger now with this dark sky, true. But I miss the sun kissing my skin as I tend my garden.”

Fieruse looked up. The sky was shrouded from us by fog, but because we could all see without fire or magic we all knew it to be daytime. Perhaps the woman was gazing toward the direction of the sun. If she was, it was still morning. Fieruse shook out her long white hair, inhaled deeply, and walked away.

In the direction of her destination I saw Stenvar, and he saw me. Perhaps he had been watching. I made my way over to him.

“You talked for a long time,” he said, referring to my conversation with Fieruse.

“I wanted to know what her plans were. The Telvanni will separate, protect as many people as they can. They can control the undead, too, which… well, I think without their help we would have struggled.”

“You don’t know that. We have you and the Tongues, and many people other than mages.”

I looked away. A memory crossed my mind, and I smiled.

“What are you thinking?” Stenvar asked me.

“I wonder,” I said, “if after today, if we survive, if mages will be seen in a better way. At least the Telvanni and their necromancy.”

Stenvar stifled a groan. “I don’t think necromancy will ever be seen as anything but bad. But, yeah, I can see people not fearing mages so much after this. Maybe. There’s no changin’ some minds, though.”

I smiled and patted Stenvar on the upper arm. I had been thinking about the reaction I had received in Windhelm when I first arrived there, when Ralof tried to get me recruited into the Stormcloaks. They had not been so interested when they learned I was a mage. The memory came and went, quickly replaced by an alert triggered somewhere deep in my mind. I found myself staring at Stenvar’s shoulder as my brain attempted to process the sensory signal. A sixth sense. Dragon sense.

I made my way to the edge of the camp towards the castle. Stenvar followed silently. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps my expression was telling. Others noticed. Others followed.

” _Laas yah nir_.”

Standing before a wall of clouds, I waited for the Shout to take effect. I attempted to single out the area ahead of us, to ignore the army behind me. The Shout did not work like that, however. I was forced to process all of the souls that the Shout detected. All I knew was that from somewhere in the direction of the castle, danger approached. It could have been a vampire, a troll, or a venomous snake. Moments later a crowd had formed around and behind me. I sensed their combined proximity and attention, heard their weapons being drawn. This only increased my inability to focus.

I voiced the Shout again, louder that time, and I waited.

“What is—?”

I raised my hand to the side, silencing the man who spoke. My hand remained in the air. _Shut up. Shut. Up. Don’t even breathe._

Staring into the white void, I waited, eyes wide and wetted by the mist. Everything was wet. Even Dawnbreaker was slick in my palm. I voiced the Shout again. I waited. The sense of foreboding grew stronger. Was it a big enemy, or many enemies? It was more substantial than a snake. Whatever approached, my dragon sense could not identify it either out of distraction, distance, or unfamiliarity.

What could a dragon not name?

I stepped forward, breaking away from the crowd. Another step. Another. A hand grasped my upper arm but I shrugged it off.

 _Stay back,_ I said with my free hand. _Stay away._ I pulled the slipknot of the cord around my neck. The mask fell free, and I settled it onto my face.

Fast. It was moving so fast. The mask showed me what my Shout couldn’t: the blue-electric outline of a winged figure galloping right for us.

“ _Tiid!_ ”

The creature slowed, but still advanced. I raised Dawnbreaker, and with my left hand cast a ward. The moment the fog began to stir, I heard its roar.

_“Iiz slen nus!”_

The figure froze in place. The fog stilled. My heart was pounding as I walked toward the ice-coated creature. It was near invisible against the white fog. I reached out with my sword, breath shaking, and when the tip of Dawnbreaker reached the creature I heard the unmistakable sound of metal against frosted stone.

What had Serana told us about? Ugly Ones. Stone Beasts. The thing was half a body taller than me, with skinny legs and thick wings too small to allow for flight. Large, broad horns crowned its head, oversized hands wielded dagger-like claws, and instead of a pig nose it had almost no nose at all, just nostrils, like a bat. Its ears were large and pointed, its eyes small and cat-like, and its teeth were caniniform – all of them pointed – with actual canine teeth as long as my finger. Is this what Serana’s father looked like in his vampire form? Would Torug look like this, too?

Behind me, a woman growled. Heavy footsteps pounded the earth as a dark-haired, stocky woman ran screaming past me and body-slammed the creature, shield first. The force caused the iced form to shatter into fist-sized chunks. I reached down to pick one up. Inside of the grey stone-like flesh was a dark organic material, similar to rotted wood or rich, fertile earth. Something within the black reflected the small amount of light given off by Dawnbreaker. It looked like an unpolished ruby.

“ _What the hell?_ ” I muttered in English.

The woman who had bashed the stone beast was Josse. She stood before me, huffing. She too was examining a chunk. “I hope it does not pull itself together again,” she said before tossing the thing over her shoulder.

“Damn,” said a familiar voice beside me. Serana. “I had not yet seen one of those go down so easily.” She eyed me and Josse. “Be wary – there are very likely more.”

“More of what?” asked Josse, kicking another chunk. “What in Oblivion was it?”

“A creature of Molag Bal,” was Serana’s answer.

Josse’s face soured and she spat upon the crumbled beast.

“They will know we’re here, now,” I said.

“After that Shout of yours,” Serana chided, “yes. Definitely.”

Isran stepped up from the crowd and surveyed the scene before us. The look he gave me was one of utter disapproval. I wanted to throttle him. The Dawnguard commander, standing before us sword in hand, regarded the gathered soldiers and mages and Telvanni. He looked as though he wanted to say something, perhaps inspire them. He never had the chance.

The moment the man took in a breath to speak, a chorus of growls, snarls, shrieks, and roars sounded from the direction of the castle. Another breath later, the ground began to rumble.

Isran’s silver eyes flashed with fear. Without another moment’s hesitation, the man bellowed to his army.

Attack.

A sea of people rushed ahead, crying out for their homeland, calling to their gods. In the middle of it all I stood still, knowing full well what was coming and paralyzed by fear. My hand found itself held by another. I looked to my side to find Stenvar, facing forward. Behind him stood Serana, eyes fixed on the distance, too. I wondered if they were as terrified as I was. Serana could likely smell the enemy by now. And Stenvar, he probably read me like a book. I gave his hand a squeeze and pulled from his grasp to take my first step forward.

“Wait,” said Serana over the din as she tugged at my sleeve. “It is the duty of this army to slaughter Torug’s dogs. You and I have more important prey.”

I stared into her false green eyes. “No, Serana. We will get to him, but I am needed here, now. I promised them I would fight with them.” I turned forward but was again pulled back.

“I cannot lose you to this horde or risk my death by a Telvanni spell!” she yelled as her other hand grasped the collar of my armor and she pulled me close to her.

Stenvar wedged himself between us and with minimal resistance from the woman forced Serana to release her grip on me. He stared her down. A deep rumble sounded from the man’s chest.

Serana eyed Stenvar before turning her attention back to me. “Torug will not fight this battle,” she said. “He is much too lazy for that. Come with me, now. There is another way in.”

The majority of our army was now before us. Bursts of fire and white light could be seen through the fog.

 _Enough of this_ , I thought, and blasted the Shout that could clear bad weather. Within moments the battlefield was clear and the clouded sky visible. The effect would last several minutes.

Serana tugged again at my sleeve. “Deborah, come on!”

I looked to the woman and then to Stenvar. He was unreadable. I wanted to approach him, reach for his hand, pull him close, embrace him. I didn’t.

“Go,” I told him. “I will see you when it’s over.”

Stenvar’s jaw muscles rippled. He swallowed. Without a nod or smile or any further reaction, the man turned toward the battle and became lost in the throng.

 

I followed Serana, cutting down vampires along the way. Her ice spears shot through the skull and chest of another stone beast, weakening it enough to allow swords and axes to cut it down.

I watched as a Telvanni man blasted a vampire with purple magic. The vampire cowered and fled. An arrow zipped by us, lodging itself in the vampire’s skull and sending it to the ground.

Two vampires jumped a large Nord warrior. He flipped one of them over his shoulder and his Warhammer popped its head like a cherry. The other vampire bit into the side of the Nord’s neck, eliciting surprisingly shrill screams from the burly man. Serana ripped the vampire away from the man and threw it into the air like a sack of laundry. It disappeared into the distance. I did what I could to heal the Nord before following Serana as she pressed on. The thick fog began to reform, then. This was definitely a spell of some kind, like the blizzard at the Throat of the World.

Grunts and laughter were heard from the army along with cries of pain cut short by death. I watched as a purple-hued vampire clawed at another vampire, eventually ripping its head off. Another stone beast stormed the area, stomping a vampire and swatting several mages. Not wanting to risk freezing allies I avoided using a Shout, but cast lightning magic at its head. The beast roared again only to be smashed in the face with a warhammer by none other than the large Nord whose life Serana and I had saved. The man gave me a nod, and carried on with the fight.

At once, Serana and I found ourselves surrounded by vampires. Instinct told me to use the new Shout that Kyne had revealed to me, but that would have destroyed Serana. I shielded us both with a ward as I attacked with Dawnbreaker. A vampire was set aflame, and a moment later, exploded with a purple light. I took the head of another, pierced another’s neck, and Serana cast a spell upon three, stunning them to a halt. After a moment, the three vampires appeared to be nothing short of docile. They then turned upon other vampires, tearing them to pieces.

“Forward!” shouted Serana. “I do not want to be caught by a Telvanni spell!”

We ran. Past the army, flanking the vampires, clearing the entire battle until we reached the shoreline. The side of the castle was in view.

Serana was leading me to what looked like a stone staircase when a roar, violent and terrifying, shook the air and ground with thunderous force. I stopped in my tracks and looked back expecting a stone beast, but nothing had followed us. I turned around. Nothing was out at sea.

And then I understood.

I lifted my gaze to the sky. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. But I could feel it.

Dragon.

A dragon’s roar was rarely so simple. It took me a moment to realize it, my brain having been occupied with the insanity of battle, but in the blast I had heard three distinct and familiar words: _drem yol lok._

Greetings.

The air above us whirled with the turbulence caused by a low-flying mass. I ducked, however needlessly, and quickly looked toward the sound of rushing air. Though the sky was a rosy grey and little light was shining from below, I could see that the dragon was not black but the color of blood and gold.

The red dragon.

“ _Yol!_ ” I Shouted at the sky, greeting the beast.

Frantic, I ran towards the battle and cut my way through vampires to find anyone who wasn’t undead. Finding a red-haired woman wielding a bow, I pulled at her shoulder and turned her to me. Her face was painted with streaks of dark green paint.

“Spread the word,” I told her. “Do _not_ attack this dragon.” I waited for her to react. “Now!”

The woman understood, and obeyed. Shouts of _Dragon! Do not attack the dragon!_ could be heard echoing across the battlefield. Serana grabbed my hand and we continued on to the castle. Looking back, I watched as fire blasted down onto the battlefield nearest the castle. I prayed none of the living were caught in the flames.

“The dragon will steal the attention of the vampires,” she said. “The army can then attack what the dragon does not kill. Torug is lazy. He will not care to kill a dragon himself. He does not need to. I have seen it. He will wait until it is dead to take its soul. Let us go now inside and hunt him down.”

“How can you be so sure!? He will know I’m here. He could be outside already!”

“He is not!” she cried, turning to me. “I can feel him. The closer we are to him the more my anger aches. Do you not sense him? You and that goddess of yours? Listen to her! Torug is not on that battlefield. He is no warrior. He is a thief, a rapist, and a _velthre_. As his children fight he feasts on his cattle. I guarantee you.”

The dragon roared again. Hidden within the thunder was one single word: _bo_.

Fly.

I stared at the woman while deliberating, while waiting to see what happened with the dragon. He said to fly, to go. Did he know what was going on? Was he indeed speaking to me? He must have been. Unless, of course, he was speaking to Torug.

“Come on, Deborah!” Serana shouted.

 _Gods help me_.

I sprinted toward the castle, abandoning the battlefield.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> velthre - lecher  
>  
> 
> Shouts used:  
> Aura Whisper: Laas Yah Nir, Life Seek Hunt  
> Slow Time: Tiid Klo Ul, Time Sand Eternity  
> Ice Storm: Iiz Slen Nus, Ice Flesh Statue


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** graphic violence and gore, sexual violence, non-consensual sexual acts, character death
> 
> Internal and external design of Volkihar Castle has been reimagined.
> 
> Mood music: “Sweet Dreams Are Made of This” by Joseph William Morgan

 

The climb to the secret side entrance was grueling. The stones were slick from the mist and I slipped twice. Serana was fast and strong, though, catching me both times and holding my weight with ease until I could find a foothold. When we reached the platform where the entrance was supposed to be, we were greeted by two enchanted, walking skeletons wielding swords. They snarled and darted for us, but Serana stopped them in their tracks with a spell that glowed purple. Conjuration magic. Her left hand remained risen, palm up, a continuous font from which sprung the energies of Oblivion and its necromancy magic. A moment later, Serana reached up with her right hand and pulled it toward her body, fingers curling into a fist. When her hand reached her thigh, the skeletons burst into a gentle puff of bone dust. Serana immediately pressed on.

With little effort, she moved an enormous, camouflaged stone slab to the side, revealing an unlit passage. With the mask’s magic I could see outlines of cobwebs and other such objects within. Serana cast her purple orbs and I cast Magelight.

“ _Laas yah nir_.”

The Shout revealed nothing within the passage, though I sensed vampires and mortals far away, perhaps inside.

“The castle is not empty,” I said, “but there is nothing close by.”

Serana gave me a nod and entered the passage. As we walked, I held in my mind the Shout that showed me life. It was enough to keep me on alert. There were spiders, some other critters, but nothing that was a danger.

A few meters in, the castle shook with the red dragon’s roar. _Fus ro dah_ , it said. I imagined a cluster of vampires scattered to the wind like leaves.

“You knew this dragon,” Serana said as we walked.

“Yes. If it’s the same dragon, it has saved me several times. And protected my family, too. Somehow, it knows. Knows who and what is a danger to me and those I want to protect.”

We continued down the dark corridor, turned, and entered another corridor. I did not ask where Serana was leading me, but assumed we were trying to get as close to Torug as we could.

This was her castle. She could probably navigate it with her eyes closed.

“I have read that dragons are intelligent,” she said. “But more than that, there must be a connection between you and this dragon. All dragons. Whether they want you dead or not, you are bonded with them in some way. Perhaps it is your soul.” Her eyes flashed gold as she peered at me. “The Orsimer never spoke of such a bond. Only hatred.”

The Orsimer. When we first met, Serana did not speak Torug’s name, instead using his race as a descriptor; we always knew who she meant. But over the weeks we had encountered more orcs, including Sharash. And, over the weeks, in conversation Serana had stopped referring to Torug by his epithet, perhaps thinking its use rude. But now we were alone. Word choice didn’t matter. But she also no longer angered when other people said his name.

Serana paused her advance and sniffed the air. “We have arrived at the stables,” she said. “He is not with them.” She continued walking.

My mind did not have time to wander, as within several steps we came upon another corridor which split in three directions. The room to the left was at a lower level with a ramp leading down into it. Within I sensed dozens upon dozens of living people. I heard rustling, the crying of infants, small splashes of water, and continuing through all this, rhythmic noises.

Curiosity made me turn left, but Serana snatched my upper arm. “These are just cattle. He is elsewhere.”

I eyed the woman a moment before continuing into what Serana had referred to as the stables. Within were not rows of cows separated by walls or fences, but masses of people, human and elf alike. In the sea of people I sensed few of the other races. I took off my mask.

The people were not chained or contained by anything. In this expansive room they sat, stood, and lay still, docile, unclothed, dirty. Infants and toddlers were nursing; some women had one on each breast. There was a trough from which some were drinking. Another trough appeared to contain some sort of grain or meal. A gulley flowed across the room, and judging by someone squatting over it, these people used it as a latrine.

Three couples, one of them next to the entrance I stood by, a pair of elves, were copulating. I stepped down the ramp, watching the rutting elves. The woman’s head was down but the man faced forward with an eerily emotionless stare. If he had sight, he made no hint at seeing.

Everyone held the same non-expression. All except for the infants and toddlers, many of which cried.

“These are the cattle,” I said to Serana who stood behind me.

She was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

“Why don’t they run?”

“Their minds are no longer their own. Whoever enthralled them commands their every action. Cattle are held, bled, bred. Other thralls are used to fight.”

“I didn’t see or sense any ‘thralls’ on the battlefield.”

The elf man released into the woman with barely more than a grunt. He remained behind her, hands rested upon her hips. The other couples, light-skinned humans, did the same. From behind me, in the room parallel to this one, came similar sounds, but a wailing infant carried above all else. I turned to investigate. Inside was the same scene. Dozens of naked people, many babies, and several rutting couples.

“What about the babies?” I asked.

“What about them?”

“Are their minds their own? They cry. The grown people don’t cry.”

Serana stepped up into the second room, walking toward the sound of the wailing infant. I followed. When Serana found the baby and gently took it from its supposed mother, the baby cried louder.

“It is not enthralled,” she surmised. Serana placed the baby back in the woman’s arms. The baby did not quiet.

“We’ll come back for them,” I said. “When we kill Torug and the vampires, the spell will die, and we’ll come back for them.”

“No.”

I turned to Serana. “No?”

“The spell will never die, Deborah. Once a vampire has enthralled a mortal, that mortal is theirs until the death of the mortal, not the death of the vampire. There is no magic that can save them. Only death.”

My throat clenched until I balled up my fists and shook the rage out of my fingers several times. “But the children are not enthralled?”

“Not the youngest, no. They are free.”

We shared a look, a silent agreement. We would return for the infants and anyone else we deemed of a free mind. “And what about the others?” I asked. “I can’t just leave them here. Some of them could have family out there, right now, fighting to save them.”

“There is no saving them.”

“Yes, Serana, I understand.” I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose. “Come on.”

I exited the room and continued down the main corridor, putting my mask back on.

I wasn’t sure what sort of rooms we eventually passed through. They looked to have once been elaborate and glamorous, but were now barren except for cobwebs and architecture, and several toppled braziers. The only light came from our magical orbs and the red auras that occasionally glowed when my Shout detected the presence of something.

Serana called the beasts Death Dogs, as best I understood her. The name sounded silly in my mind, like some metal band. I instead thought of them as Death Hounds. Hell Hounds. They were black and hairless with red glowing eyes, and had far too many dinosaur-like teeth. They were undead, and radiated cold like a walking chunk of ice. Against Serana’s strong magic they stood no chance, though there had only been two of them in the once-grand hall.

“Expect their master,” was all Serana said once the dogs were turned to dust. She sent a purple orb of light up a staircase, and immediately after, something growled behind me.

Without wasting precious moments on thinking, I turned and sent a burst of flame toward the sound. The growling turned into yelping, but as that sound quieted it was replaced by the snarls of a vampire. Other snarls sounded from all around the hall, their sources hidden by darkness.

In front of me, what once was a Forsworn woman lunged forward with sharp nails and gnashing teeth. Dawnbreaker sliced her torso, setting her ragged hide clothing on fire. The vampire cast upon herself a spell that briefly covered her entire body with ice. A frost cloak.

Behind me, Serana fended off more creatures. I heard the humming of her magic and the ceasing of movement, and knew she was using her necromancy to enthrall the vampires and hounds, perhaps even forcing them to fight one another. She liked doing that.

The fire on the Forsworn vampire’s body went out, and again she attacked. Another Death Hound galloped forward. And another. My ward managed to stop them, acting like a shield, but even with the mask’s enhancement of my magic I knew my ward could be broken through. It was not made of iron.

“ _Fus!_ ” I Shouted, pushing them back somewhat.

Though the creatures were temporarily dazed, I immediately regretted the use of a Shout. We were meant to be sneaking into this castle. Torug was meant to think we were outside.

 _I am an idiot._ The use of a single word made for a weaker Shout, but it could have been enough to send reverberations across the stones all the way to Torug’s ears.

One of the Death Hounds came at me again. I swung Dawnbreaker at its head, slicing its face. As the hound backed away in pain, the vampire once again attacked with her nails, slashing at my armor. I drew back Dawnbreaker in order to swing forward, but my arm was held back, clamped, crushed, pierced.

The pain was excruciating. Cold. I felt that my forearm had been shoved into a vat of liquid nitrogen and stomped on by an iceberg. Whatever held my arm pulled me down to the floor with its weight. Dawnbreaker clanked against the stone. The pain came and stayed. Through gritted teeth I held in my agony.

Then lightning magic flared all around me, encasing first my arm and then my body. My vision blanched. The hound that had its mouth upon me was turned into ash, and the Forsworn vampire, still bent on killing me, was stopped by Serana’s magic, hand mid-air, nails ready to claw at my face. My vision returned to normal, the lightning cloak dissipated, and the Forsworn vampire righted her posture and remained still, eyes fixed on nothing, enthralled.

“Serana,” I breathed. The woman crouched down at my side and gazed at my arm. She knew. Perhaps she had seen it happen before. “Will… will I?” I grimaced when Serana poked my screaming flesh through torn leather.

“Hold still,” she said. With a dagger, she cut off the ruined lower sleeve. When she peeled it off I could see its tattered state, all the appearance of swiss cheese. Worse. What was more holey than swiss cheese?

 _Fuck hell shit this hurts_.

“Will I turn, Serana?” I asked, fearing that I would become either vampire or whatever the hell Death Hounds were.

“No. Nothing will happen.” She again poked my wound. I bit my lower lip to stop myself from screaming. “I do not think the bone is broken.”

With all the strength I could muster, I wiggled my fingers and flexed my wrist. It hurt. Goddamn, it hurt a lot. But I could do it. I was no orthopedist, but if anything major had been severed or broken, I figured that I would not have been able to move my hand as I just had.

I set about healing my arm while Serana found one of my healing potions in my pouch. I took a sip of the bitter-sewer-flower syrup. Serana then held up my canteen to my lips and I washed down the awfulness.

The heat of healing magic felt wonderful on my arm. I stopped the magic when the acute stabbing, burning pain was replaced by a dull ache. The healed flesh looked like it had been stung by thirty bees.

“We must go on,” said Serana. “He may know we are inside, now. We must be quick to find him.”

The rest of the way was clear. We scurried through more dark, narrow corridors, bypassing halls and other rooms. Serana said the corridors were at one time servant’s hallways, separate from main corridors so that servants were hidden from sight, an apparent eyesore according to her forebears. She had used some of these corridors to infiltrate the castle with Torug when assassinating her father and his new family.

Eventually we came upon a locked door. Serana made a signal for me to be quiet, and I watched her face contort in thought. She was listening, but to what? Perhaps she knew what was on the other side of that door. Perhaps she expected Torug to be there.

“ _Laas_.”

Humans. One vampire. The vampire signature was very strong.

I suddenly felt the need for a latrine, but ignored it.

Serana grasped my shoulders and held my gaze. Her fingertips dug into the leather.

 _This is it, isn’t it?_ I asked her with my mind. I didn’t expect an answer. I didn’t get one.

Instead, Serana turned back to the door and moved her hand closer, palm out, until a purple magic glowed and wobbled as if a ward had been disrupted. She turned to me, eyes flashing.

She approached and pressed her lips to my ear. “This door opens out into the courtyard. There is a barrier across the doorway. Not a ward, but something that is formed when a summoning ritual is being performed.”

“A ritual!?”

“Hush!” Serana hissed before turning back to the door and then back to me. “I can feel him. He is in the courtyard, and he is not alone. I do not want to believe it, but what I sense—” Her expression shifted to one of utter dread. “He may be summoning Molag Bal. The season is right. And I believe the month is, too. We must stop him, Deborah.” Serana grabbed my upper arms and jostled me. “Now!”

“Can you unlock the door? Can we even pass through the barrier?”

“It is not a true barrier. It is more like… a veil.” Serana looked to the door for a moment and then back at me. “I have a plan.”

. . . . . .

Alone, sword at the ready, I inhaled and exhaled deeply, stretching my diaphragm. I had no way of knowing if my Shout would be capable of blowing down a door through a magical barrier. No, not a barrier. A veil. The veil between Mundus and Oblivion. What would happen if I disrupted that veil? I didn’t let myself think too much about it.

I visualized the door flying into an imagined courtyard, soaring over pavestones and slamming directly into Torug’s face. I visualized this several times as I breathed deep. Again. Again.

_Fus ro dah._

The cacophonous sound ricocheted around the corridor, slamming my own eardrums as hard as it did the door. My ears rung and I lost my balance, but a sudden influx of purple-grey light and torrent of snow hinted at success.

Once the Shout’s thunder faded, the cries of women could be heard. One of the women screamed in pain, begged for something to stop, whimpering and moaning in between pleas. A man grunted repeatedly, then quieted. The woman stopped screaming. I could still hear the other women crying.

I walked up the ramp into the courtyard, a strong ward held before me. Snow had begun to fall hard over the castle, blocking even more of the daylight from the already dimmed sky. But a steady purple glow doming the vast courtyard illuminated the scene all too well. Through my ward’s ice-blue magic I could see Torug, naked, standing over the body of a naked, tall blonde woman, from the look of her an Altmer. She was covered in blood, as was the ground around her. To the side were four other women, perhaps Nords, all naked, bloody, cowering, and crying. They were chained to a post by shackled wrists.

My fingers gripped Dawnbreaker tightly. Torug turned to me, the front of his body painted red, as was his erection. He was smirking.

“Step away from them,” I raged.

“You are interrupting.” His voice was practically a growl.

“Summoning Molag Bal, are you?” I asked as if I would have known that without Serana informing me as much. “Is that what this is around us? A veil between worlds? Have I cut my way into your little section of Oblivion?”

Torug turned his back to me, walked to the side a short distance, and picked up something from the ground. It looked to be a rather large warhammer. Without better lighting I couldn’t make out details, but it was about the same size and shape as the weapon that was used to smash the head of Ulfric Stormcloak.

As I considered how I could block an attack from such a weapon, Torug walked back over to the woman laying still on the ground and swung the weapon at her back. The shackled women screamed, and my breath caught.

“ _Laas!_ ”

Small blessings. The woman on the ground was dead. Perhaps she had been dead when the mace came down. Perhaps not. Torug lifted the warhammer. Blood flew from its spiked head as he brought it down on the dead woman a second time.

“Stop it!” I screamed.

A third time.

“ _Fus ro dah!_ ”

The woman’s corpse skidded across the paved courtyard, smearing a dark path beneath her. Torug had made to batter the body a fourth time but the Shout broke his swing and knocked him back several steps. I had expected more of an impact, for the beast to go flying, but he simply stumbled and fell off his feet.

Dawnbreaker held at my side, I sprinted forward.

“ _Feim!_ ” he Shouted, turning himself into a blue ghostly figure. He chuckled. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we met? This will not end well for you, mage.”

“You say ‘mage’ as if it is an insult.”

“It is.”

Torug’s body began to rematerialize and I swung at his upper arm. Dawnbreaker sliced into his grey-green flesh. Torug grunted, but the flames barely ignited. I pulled away before he could disarm me. The mask’s enhanced vision, showing even the slightest hint at movement, greatly improved my reaction time.

I cast my ward again, simple but strong, and assessed my surroundings. I sensed only Torug and the four Nord women. I could not sense Serana. She told me this would be the case.

“You’ve brought your army at a very inconvenient time. Meridia must have planned it this way. Do you hear me, bitch? I know you’re in there!”

“ _Krein!_ ”

The light of the simplified Shout blasted forward but not around me, not quite reaching Torug. Still, this was good to know. One word, forward. Three words, outward.

Torug laughed. “That’s a new one. Too dark for you, hm? Let me help you out.” I could only watch in horror as Torug blasted dragon fire at the four shackled women. They lit up like tinder, their screams blood-curdling.

“ _Iiz slen nus!_ ”

I knew what the Shout would do. Torug likely expected me to use it. The women were showered with ice crystals, frozen in place. But they were no longer burning alive. They were no longer alive.

As expected, Torug heaved his weapon and swung it forward, nearly hitting me.

“I don’t want you dead,” he roared. “I want you alive. They were nobody,” he said, motioning to the frozen, cowering statues behind him. “But you. You, he will come for. Submit!”

He swung his weapon, and once more I dodged the blow.

“You’re alone in this courtyard, Torug. Your vampires are busy being burned alive by my dragon. Mages are tearing them apart with Conjuration spells. Do you know what happens to weaker vampires when met by a necromancer?”

“Let them burn. I only need you. You, on your knees. Broken, if need be.”

He swung low, and I sprinted to the side with a Shout.

Torug sneered. “I’ve never tasted a Prince before. Is that why you smell like lightning? What does it feel like to be used? To have someone else pulling your strings?”

“If you think Meridia is in control now you would not want to see me when she truly is.”

“Oh, I would. Come out and play, Meridia darling.” Torug’s face contorted briefly, a mirage dissipating only to reform. I wasn’t quite sure about what I saw.

Then in an instant, Torug’s skin gushed blood, and as if his orc body had been a cocoon, a winged monstrosity emerged. The beast that was Torug loomed over me, looking something of a hybrid between an orc, a Stone Beast, and a two-legged dragon. His face had elongated and was more robust. His head was crowned with horns. His claws, each as long as his hands, were curved and deadly. He unfurled his wings revealing a span twice as wide as he was tall. His skin appeared to be scaled. He was still naked, painted dark with vampiric blood. He was violently aroused.

I had to suppress a gag.

“I am the Champion of Molag Bal,” Torug declared, his voice distorted, almost two-tone. “I _am_ Molag Bal! Who are you, mage? The Champion of Meridia? Child of Akatosh?” Torug spat blood at the ground. “You are nothing, here. Oblivion strengthens my power. The Bloodcursed Sun strengthens my power. The souls of six hundred dragons strengthen my power. I can _smell_ your weakness. Submit!”

Torug shot magic directly at me, catching only the tip of Dawnbreaker as I darted to the side again.

“Who am I?” I said, grinning under Meridia’s mask. My hands tingled. “I am life. I am death.” My vision blanched, making the mask’s sight shine electric white instead of blue. I felt Meridia’s will course through my body. I felt her strength. I felt her rage.

Our rage.

“Who am I!?” we cried out as silvery armor encased our body. “I am Light.” Electricity burst from our body in all directions.

And then, slowly, my vision returned to normal.

Sharp teeth were exposed by Torug’s wide grin. “Merrridddia,” he rumbled. “It has been too long.”

“ _Krein tuz ag!_ ”

The Shout’s light expanded well beyond where Torug stood, emblazoning his body with golden light. The beast roared with pain until his magic washed over him, snuffing the embers.

“ _Krein tuz ag!_ ” I repeated.

The effect was the same. Pained, not annihilated. This was expected.

“I do not need dragons to give me power,” I said before casting lightning magic at Torug’s chest. Electricity flowed from ten pointed fingers. Without a ward, without a shield, Torug was defenseless. But again, as with the Shout, the lightning seemed to merely annoy him.

“Weak,” said the beast before dissipating in a cloud of black bats. The bats flew around the courtyard and condensed before a shining metal object that looked like an oversized sundial. Torug reformed, wings and all. He wasted no time in Shouting fire, followed by another burst of magic.

My ward blocked all he threw at me. Fire. Ice. Spells. Since when did he cast spells? When Torug flew forward, hovering rather than using his wings, I dodged the attack by becoming ethereal. The effect of the Shout would last a minute or so.

In the distance, the red dragon roared fire. _Yol_. Though muffled by castle walls, I could hear the squealing of vampires, not mortals.

My body tingled again. “You are not as strong without your Blades. Or your ‘children’. Can you feel them dying?” we asked. “All you have done, Bal, all you have given to this beast, has been for nothing. Harkon’s line will end. Torug’s line will end. No more will your Daughters roam Nirn. This I promise you.”

“You talk too much,” Torug grumbled as he lifted himself into the air with his wings.

“She does, doesn’t she?”

Before I could search the courtyard to find the source of the voice, an arrow flew directly at Torug’s chest, lodging itself right below the center of his oversized pectorals. White magic flared upon impact, eliciting a grunt from Torug. His wings faltered, but he remained in the air.

Another arrow hit his right thigh. Another, his left wing, tearing a hole and continuing through the air. Each impact resulted in white magic and pain. Torug writhed, once again encasing himself in whatever magic he had acquired from Molag Bal. To his side he cast a spell, turning as he did so, following whatever small, dark figure was running around with a bow and arrows.

“ _Laas yah nir_.”

Myself. Torug. Serana, finally – I saw her aura under an alcove. She was concealed by shadow. And the fourth, an elf. I watched the red aura sprint around the courtyard. The elf laughed as she ran, at one point using the frozen Nord women as a shield. Somehow she ignited an arrow, and shot it at Torug’s other wing, damaging that one as well.

As Torug made to yank the flaming arrow out of his wing, the archer sent forth a steady stream of arrows, each causing Torug pain and shining white on impact. The archer pranced around the courtyard again, pausing every so often to bend over, perhaps collecting spent arrows.

I removed my mask and finally realized that the archer was none other than Neriwen.

Each time she picked up an arrow, she dragged it across something before shooting it at Torug. When she was closer I saw that she wore a cloth around her arm that was dark and shining. At first this looked like a bandaged wound. Rather, it was apparently a rag soaked with poison. Soaked with my blood.

I put my mask back on and Shouted ice at Torug while casting the strongest ice spell that I knew at each of his wings. Torug wanted to be a dragon? I would down him like a dragon.

Guttural cries proved that he was in pain, and no amount of his vampire magic could stop the onslaught. He eventually fell to the paved ground with all the force one would expect from a dragon, and I took my chance.

I unsheathed Dawnbreaker and ran toward the injured beast, screaming curses in a language I did not know. The words were Meridia’s, spoken with my lips. _I will cleanse this world of undeath_ , she cried in some ancient tongue. _You and your kind will suffer._

Just as Torug made to stand I leapt onto his back, hooking my left arm around his throat and tightening my thighs around his torso. His wings fluttered and flapped, nearly causing me to fall to the ground. When I regained my balance I struck Torug’s right wing with the sword, cutting into hard flesh. Flames burned only him. Torug grabbed at my legs, clawing and attempting to throw me.

“Tell me where the bow is!” I screamed at Torug’s ear. He ignored me.

I struck his wing again, reaching bone. Arrows sunk into his chest, but the beast would still not die.

“The bow, Torug! Tell me!”

The pain of his claws digging into my thighs nearly forced me to give up, to jump off of him, but a wraithlike wailing blared from across the courtyard, demanding Torug’s attention. I looked up to see Serana flying towards us, a dagger raised high. The woman slashed at my arm that held Torug’s neck, drawing blood, and then plunged the dagger into Torug’s chest. She sliced again. Again. Again. I screamed with the pain but held on. Torug must have moved, and I became pinned between his body and a stone wall. Dawnbreaker clashed to the ground. My cut arm’s strength gave out and I collapsed, propped up only by the wall and Torug.

With his wings Torug pushed against the wall. I fell to the ground. Serana continued to plunge the dagger into Torug’s chest and throat. She was covered in black blood. This was too dangerous for her. My blood could easily end her in an instant. If she came into contact with my lightning cloak, she could be turned to dust. Torug was strong, though, his body only charred by the lightning magic, and blood poison only maiming him. Perhaps Serana was just as strong. She was, after all, able to cut through my lightning armor just as Torug could.

I scrambled to one knee, picked up Dawnbreaker, and stood. I walked forward. Torug was distracted by Serana and her dagger, and by Neriwen and her arrows. When Torug’s wings unfurled, I threw my weight forward and drove Dawnbreaker through his spine, between his shoulder blades, to the hilt.

“Go, Serana!” I screamed.

The woman didn’t listen. As she raised her dagger again, Torug reached out with his left arm and grabbed her neck. He clamped down hard. Serana’s blood-gold eyes bulged in fear.

As I tried to remove the sword from Torug’s body, Dawnbreaker’s second enchantment ignited, and an explosion of light forced me to look away.

Torug roared. I opened my eyes to see his skin glowing. Pieces of burnt flesh floated away, revealing more of his molten, cracking body. Torug, still impaled by Dawnbreaker, released Serana and fell to his knees.

My vision blanched again. Lightning armor still encased our body. We walked around Torug, wanting to face him for the end.

His mouth was agape as he bellowed. His eyes glowed bright. His flesh was roasting. He was dissipating.

A final word crossed Meridia’s lips, one which I understood well.

“ _Krii_.” Kill.

Purple light mixed with the gold, and Torug’s cries grew louder, visceral. An instant later the beast exploded, showering the area with blood and seared flesh.

My vision returned, and the lightning armor dissipated. Dawnbreaker was covered by black sludge. Looking across the puddle, I saw the same mess had covered Neriwen.

The purple veil that had been risen by Torug’s ritual had faded, and we were left in the near-dark. Snow still fell. I had expected it to melt upon coming into contact with the pool of Torug’s blood. It didn’t.

I looked around but could not find Serana.

“ _Laas_.” Myself and Neriwen. I looked to the elf, confused, and horrified at my own imagination.

Before I could ask Neriwen if she saw what happened, a swirl of colorful magic rose up from the bloody ground, followed by another, and several more. Gentle tendrils of white, orange, gold, and purple flowed towards me, wrapping around my limbs and torso.

 _Dovahkiin_ , came a whisper in my mind. _Dovahkiin!_

One. Two. Ten. Fifty. I felt them all. I knew them all. I saw through their eyes, tasted their last meals, battled their last moments.

_Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau._

This mortal body fell to its knees.

“Deb!” shouted someone.

_Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin._

One hundred. Two. Many cried out for my death. They clawed at my mind, spat fire at my soul.

_Naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth._

The snarling face of Torug and a man I did not recognize faded into a bright purple-pink galactic sky, a broad white-hot light at its center.

_Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom._

I felt warm.

 _Dahmaan daar rok_.

A moment later, a familiar face with hazel eyes came into view.

“ _Ki-Dibella_?”

I blinked at the man, confused.

He grinned and chuckled. “Wait, it isn’t your time yet,” he said before turning away to look at his side. “It isn’t her time yet, right?”

“Nope,” said a woman. I felt a thud at my side as someone landed on their knees. Long red hair fluttered in the breeze, and a blue-eyed beauty smiled down at me. “Go back, Dragonborn. I know it hurts, but you can handle it.”

“She certainly can,” boomed a guttural voice. I turned my head to see a scrawny, wizened and grey-bearded man standing next to a much taller man with strawberry blonde goatee and braids. Behind them stood a burly older man with narrowed eyes, arms folded across his chest.

“Go back,” the redhead repeated, turning my head so that I met her gaze. She had a glorious smile. “Go back, Dragonborn. You have some living yet to do.”

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shouts Used:  
> \- Aura Whisper: Laas Yah Nir, Life Seek Hunt  
> \- Fire Breath: Yol Toor Shul, Fire Inferno Sun  
> \- Unrelenting Force: Fus Ro Dah, Force Balance Push  
> \- Become Ethereal: Feim Zii Gron, Fade Spirit Bind  
> \- Ice Storm: Iiz Slen Nus, Ice Flesh Statue  
> \- Whirlwind Sprint: Wuld Nah Kest, Whirlwind Fury Tempest  
> \- Marked for Death: Krii Lun Aus, Kill Leech Suffer  
> \- Blade of the Sun: Krein Tuz Ag, Sun Blade Burn
> 
> The blessing of the Greybeards:  
> Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.  
>  =  
> "Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath, we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Hearken to it."
> 
> Ki-Dibella = not Dibella


	36. Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: "Ain't No Sunshine" by Coeur de Pirate

**— 4 —**

**_SURVIVAL_ **

 

Rapid heartbeats, gasping breaths. Futilely I clawed, imprisoned. There were too many.

They fought for control. No physical strength but their Words were powerful. I did not listen. I stayed my Voice.

 _Fight them_.

Some were with me. Most were against me.

Kin.

My flesh tore and burned. They argued. They contested. Strength and domination. I could not allow it.

_Fight them._

Less and less. I viewed the thinning battle through the eyes of the vanquished. I knew them. I was them. They became me.

The pain weakened, but remained. A roiling stalemate.

 _I fight_.

 

The room was dark but for a single candle. A figure stood over me, strength pressing against my body. The whites of its eyes flashed. Its Words were weak, but body strong.

I was stronger.

With the strength of my kin I jutted forth my limb and clutched at the mortal’s throat, silencing its Words.

“ _Krii lun aus!_ ” I proclaimed, and watched as the light of Aetherius shined through its crumbling flesh. Its remnants and trappings fell in a heap. My strength was boosted; I was hungry.

Scuffles and shouting. I turned to the sound. Light seeped into the room, temporarily blinding.

“Deb?” a shadow called in a high voice. “Deborah’s awake!” It stepped toward me, a light swaying by its side. “What—what happened?” It scrambled to the heap before me. The swaying light stilled. “What is this?” The figure, crouched before me in supplication, looked up. “What did you do?”

 _Do. Do?_ I awoke. I battled, and I won. I—

Pain. Claws raked at my mind. Words seared my flesh. I fell only to be caught by clouds.

“I got you, Deb. It’s alright.” Warmth. Kindness. Magic?

“Who was watching her tonight?”

“I don’t remember.”

“One of the Dawnguard mages.”

“Shit.”

“What is this dust?”

“Is that… his armor?”

“Where’s the body?”

“That… that’s the body. I think.”

“Ysmir’s Beard.”

Clouds hugged me, and the Voices faded into whispers.

. . . . . .

Something prickly yet soft tickled the flesh of my wrist. A voice breathed unintelligible whispers, and in my palm pooled a stinging wetness.

“Don’t you take her,” the strengthening deep voice ordered. “It isn’t her time. It can’t be her time. How dare you take her before me.” Sobbing. Shaking.

Words failed to cross my lips, but I could move my hand. My fingertips brushed against wiry hairs.

A sharp intake of breath. “You’re awake!” said the man before laughing through nerves. “Kyne’s Breath.” A hand caressed my cheek. “Stay with me, Deb. Don’t sleep again. You need to drink some water. Please.”

Mouth open a bit, breaths shallow, I managed a smile.

Stenvar, tears streaking his face, smiled back. A trembling hand held out a small cup. I was held up to drink it, and laid back down.

“Ya gotta stop doin’ this to me,” he said with another nervous laugh. “Were you in Oblivion again?”

Oblivion? No. I never left. I was here. Always here. Wasn’t I?

“It’s alright. You don’t have to speak.”

I shut my eyes. A hand swept my hair back.

The pain remained, always the same dull but constant throbbing inside my skull caused by the unending discourse over my body and soul. Below the painful din, one Voice carried further, stronger than the rest. It argued on my behalf.

Paarthurnax.

His name meant ‘ambition overlord cruelty,’ and perhaps the dragon once lived up to his name. But at the end of his life I knew him as a friend, and in death, he became my protector. I wondered what Words he had spoken in Torug’s mind. Did he fight my rival’s other dragons as he did mine, now?

Torug, if he was in my head, was silent. I could not hear or feel him. Perhaps he was dormant.

But if Paarthurnax was within me, a part of me, then so too was Torug, and Miraak, and any dragon – or any other dragonborn they might have killed – that they had taken into them. I did not count the Voices. I did not want to.

Gentle fingers stroked my hair, shifting my attention outward, away from my inner turmoil.

“It’s been days, Deb," said Stenvar. “The fight is over but the people are gettin’ nervous. We don’t have this bow we were told to look for. They combed the castle. We need to tell ‘em all something before more lose hope and leave.” A hand clamped down on mine. “Ya need to get out of bed. I’ll help you. You can lean on me, or I’ll carry you. But you can’t stay in bed. I know something’s wrong in here,” he said, thumbing my forehead, “but we tried everything n’ sleep doesn’t seem to help you any. Can you try to sit up, just for a moment? I’ll pull you up n’ hold you to start, alright?”

Without waiting, the man hoisted my upper body into a seated position on the bed. I slumped against him, head on his shoulder. An arm wrapped around my body. A hand held mine, fingers interlocked.

“There ya go. Can you sit up yourself?”

The man’s grip on my side lessened, and slowly the arm pulled away. I remained vertical.

“Here,” he said, handing me a cup. “Sip slowly. I’ll find some porridge for you in a bit.”

My stomach turned at the thought of food. “No,” I breathed. “No porridge.”

“It’s all we got, Deb, at least until the next supply run returns.”

“No food.”

“Yes food,” he retorted. “Now, stand for me, please. I’ll help ya up, but you’ve gotta work your legs.”

My hand found a grip at the base of the man’s neck.

“Yup, lean into me, sweetheart. It’s alright.”

My fingers tightened. They tightened more.

The man grunted and turned toward me. He grabbed the hand that was assaulting him and, cuffing the wrist, spun around to stand behind me. His arms hooked mine to lock me in place. The thunderous Shout barreled forward, punching a boulder-sized depression into the wooden wall.

I cackled.

“Enough!” the man named Stenvar yelled. “I know it’s you in there, Torug. Tell us where to find the bow!” He yanked backward at my hair, but not hard enough for the action to hurt. “Tell Deborah where the bow is. Tell her!”

The man’s persistence was amusing. “The Bow of Aurrrielll?” I drawled. “She’ll never reach it. The mage dies with me.” My neck strained as the man pulled back harder on my hair. I gazed up at his scowl and grinned. “You like hurting her?”

He growled. “Get out of her head!”

I enjoyed his frustration. “If I go, the bow is lost. You. Need. Me.”

The man screamed into my ear. Someone pulled him away. My body was walked backwards to the bed and laid down. My wrists were restrained. I listened as the man named Stenvar cried, and as a scuffle resulted in a slammed door and blissful silence.

Finally, I was left alone to the Voices debating within. I listened, entertained.

I only needed a few more days. Her body could only last a few more days.

I tried to Shout again, to become ethereal and flee this place, but the Words failed. The mage was holding me back.

The door open, and in walked a dark, thin figure I recognized by smell long before I saw her golden eyes.

“Serana, darling.”

“Quiet,” she bit, and gently closed the bedroom door.

My sister strode up to the bed, her boots heavy against the wooden floor. With sharp nails she grabbed my face and held it at an angle away from her. Smart.

“You believe you can still win,” she said, “but I know how this will end. Before Deborah destroys your soul from within, I wanted you to hear these words from the lips of the one you betrayed so readily.” She leaned in, and her cold lips grazed my ear. “I vow to annihilate your remaining progeny, Torug. Your pact with Molag Bal will have been for nothing. Your soul will be His for nothing. I have their scent, and will hunt down your children until I no longer have use of my legs.”

I laughed at the imagery, prompting a violent slap across my face. I had forgotten how vulnerable living flesh was. The attack stung.

“Every one of your children will be turned to dust,” she continued. “Your Forsworn, and your Blades as well, will be the target of every Skyrim citizen, east and west.”

“To what end, Serana? You wanna hunt my progeny? Fine. Make that your life’s work. But you know very well there’s no point. This world will die without a sun. _We_ don’t need a sun. The day you kill my last child will be the day the last mortal takes its last breath, and there will be nothin’ left but you n’ the dust. Mark my words.”

Serana laughed languidly. I always thought she had such a sexy laugh.

“You fool,” she murmured, standing up. “I would have thought you would understand how this works. I do, and only because she once explained it to me. Your soul is a part of Deborah’s, now. Your _memories_ are now Deborah’s. The moment she regains control of her mind and body, she will know everything you knew. Everything you did. All of your… Shouts. All of your training. All of your secrets. Hers. You have lost, Torug Dragonbane. For the third and final time.”

_Dov ah kiin oblaan._

“Shut up,” I mumbled.

“Did you speak?” Serana called as she made for the door.

“Fuck you.”

Serana laughed, and left.

I stared at the ceiling and listened to the chaos within the mage’s mind. “I hope you waste away, Outlander bitch.”

The pain returned. Sharp, like a dagger to the temple, and then encompassing. A suffocating darkness.

 _Krii._  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krii Lun Aus - Marked for Death (Kill Leech Suffer)
> 
> Dov ah kiin oblaan = dragonkind hunter-born ended
> 
> Krii - kill


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fanfiction Appreciation Day !!!
> 
> Mood music: “Heavy Stone” by Kyla La Grange and then at the end, the first half of “Lean on Me” by J2 & Sizzy Rocket

The air smelled sweet when I awoke. Floral, and something more earthy. I let my body, sore and stiff, rouse slowly as I identified the smells. The floral scent was likely perfume or oil extract. The earthiness was definitely feces. My feces, I realized.

Legs weak and wobbly, I slinked out of the simple, cot-like bed and made my way to what was thankfully a full washbasin. What appeared to be clean rags were draped over a string, and I set about cleaning myself. The bedclothes I would probably burn.

At some point I had been completely undressed, so none of my clothing had been soiled. I saw my scrappy leather armor on a chair underneath my underarmor, underwear, and chest binding. All of it, including the armor, looked like it had been cleaned. Considering how much blood would have been caked onto the armor, there was someone nearby who needed my sincere gratitude.

While I was dipping a second rag into the water, a severe wave of nausea and dizziness hit and I reeled forward. I attempted to break my fall by gripping the edge of the short wardrobe, but my hand missed and instead collided hard with the washbasin. Cold water splashed everywhere, and a loud thud did nothing to help the blossoming migraine I was about to experience.

Someone opened the door to the small bedroom and mumbled something about gods. The door slammed, and in a heartbeat, someone was by my side.

The room spun. I closed my eyes.

“Hey,” said a deep voice. Stenvar. “Are you alright? Did you fall?”

I put pressure on the side of my head with the ball of my palm. “It… hurts.”

“Yeah,” was all he said.

I was helped to my feet. A strong body supported my weight. Rags were used to dry me, and perhaps clean what I couldn’t. I was dressed in my underwear and underarmor, foregoing my chest binding, and then I was sat on a short stool.

Stenvar left my side to go to the door. Someone was called in. The bedclothes were changed. So was the mattress. Stenvar returned, helped me to the clean bed, and tucked me under the fresh cover.

The migraine continued. Stenvar held my hand.

“You walked,” he said.

My mouth twitched into a near-smile. “Sort of.”

My left forearm throbbed. I pulled back the underarmor sleeve to examine the flesh. The underside was decorated by faded parallel scars, the cuts made for drawing blood. They were well healed. The top of the forearm was marred by five slashes made at varying angles. Deep cuts. They too were healed, scabbed over nicely, but the surrounding flesh was swollen and pink.

“Do ya think you can handle some water?” Stenvar reached for the pitcher and cup on the nightstand.

I accepted the cup, and was able to angle myself up a bit while taking a sip. The action did nothing to end my nausea or pain, but I knew I needed to drink.

“Where are we?” I asked, voice hoarse.

“Northwatch Keep, northern Haafingar. Used to be a Thalmor fort. Prison, too, I think. This is where they held my cousin Thorald captive for a while.” Stenvar took the cup from me and set it on the nightstand. “You’ve improved since a few days ago.”

I managed a chuckle. “The same way ‘alive’ is better than ‘dead’?”

He laughed. “Yeah.” His palmed pressed to my forehead. “No more fever, either.”

“I had a fever?”

“Yep. A bad one. Perhaps from those cuts on your arm.” Stenvar’s palm moved down to my cheek. It stayed there. “I’ve been….” He cleared his throat. “Do you remember anything? Anything from the last week?”

“Week?” I searched Stenvar’s eyes, noting the swollen capillaries and overall redness. Tired, or tear-strained? Perhaps both. “I remember… I was in Aetherius.”

Stenvar’s eyes widened. “Aetherius?”

I nodded. “Sovngard, I think. I… I don’t actually know. Everything was purple. I saw Ingjard. And Thrynn. Wuunferth and Ulfric and even Galmar. I guess Galmar died.” I tried to recall other faces, other souls. If I had seen anyone else, if Yrsarald had been there, the memory of it was gone. Certainly I would have remembered seeing Yrsarald.

“I was sent back,” I continued. “Someone sent me back. I don’t remember what they said. I just remember faces, like a dream.”

Flashes of scenes played out in my mind’s eye. Three women, a white light, and blood. Darkness, mist, and dragons. So many dragons. A bottomless, terrifying void. Lightness.

“Torug is gone,” I whispered.

Stenvar nodded. “I thought he might be. You stopped attacking me a couple days ago.”

“Attacking you?”

“I’m fine.” He looked away for a moment.

“What happened, out there?” I asked. “Outside of the castle. The dragon.”

“Your dragon. I recognized it. Its fire took down more than just vampires, but… damn, it saved our lives.” Stenvar looked down and shook his head. He sighed. “A lot of people died. Your Tongues made it out alright. Most of the Telvanni, too. Not the older one, the Master, but Brelyna is fine. Jen’s fine. Most of the Telvanni left, but instead of goin’ back to Solstheim they said they would stay in Skyrim to hunt vampires. On their own, not with the Dawnguard. Isran’s alive, by the way. He keeps talkin’ about Windhelm. He seems to enjoy the thought of bein’ its steward. Doesn’t seem to care about you so much, which annoys me, to be honest.” He huffed. “No matter. The battle went well. I think we’ve a bit more than half of those we started out with. The dragon stayed with us until the last vampire was either dead or gone. Then it flew to the castle n’ stayed there until we found you. Then it flew south, gone.”

I smiled through another wave of pain and nausea. Stenvar caressed my forehead.

“So, I guess you’ve got a bunch of dragons in your head, now. Can’t say I’m surprised you’re in pain. Do you, uh… you’ve got their memories, too? Torug’s?”

I frowned, thinking. “It’s not memories. It’s more… knowing. I know things.” My gaze locked onto Stenvar’s. Did he know about the bow? And if so, just now much was he told? “Can you bring Serana here? I need to talk to her.”

He nodded and stood, leaving the room. Perhaps ten minutes passed before Serana was at my side. I was given some porridge to eat in the meantime. It didn’t stay down. I drank more water.

Serana, no doubt reading my mind, closed the door behind her. She and I were alone. The woman peered at my face, examining the cheeks, I thought. “Are you better, now?” she asked.

“I suppose so. I feel… terrible is not a strong enough word. But Stenvar says I’m better.”

“Hmm. At the very least, you are yourself again. The possession was killing you.”

“Possession!?”

“You told me once what happened when a dragon’s soul combines with yours. I thought perhaps the same would occur should you take in Torug’s soul. It appears I was right. It took you several days, but your soul won, in the end.” Serana leaned in close to me, her face hovering over mine. “Tell me that he told you before you ended him,” she said in a low voice. “Tell me you know where the bow is!”

The woman’s illusive green eyes flashed golden. I swallowed hard. “I know where the bow is, Serana.”

. . . . . .

In a small boat, we traveled back toward Serana’s island, rowing even farther north, farther than any Nord would have reason to sail, it was said. The air was frigid, and ice floes threatened to block our passage. In the distance, looking south, I could just make out the hint of Volkihar Castle through the hovering mist. To the west was a small ice-capped island, or perhaps a large iceberg.

This was the place.

The memory was one of several stuck in my head from Torug’s life. I did not recall a possession, of his mind taking over my body, of anything that happened after attacking him. But I knew his final thoughts, what was going through Torug’s head during those final moments before his soul was vanquished. And one of those final thoughts – as the greatest fortune ever to occur would have it – was thoughts of the Bow of Auriel. Stenvar told me that he and Serana had tried to get the information out of him. In the end, all Torug had to do was think about the bow and where he hid it for me to receive the information.

 

The water in the northern sea was nearly cold enough to freeze over. When we reached the area where the bow had been dumped, I told the oarsmen to stop rowing, and Serana dove, naked, into the sea.

The crew of the smaller boat was perplexed by this. I told them that she specialized in Alteration magic and that she was able to shield herself from cold, and also breathe under water. They bought it. Probably. Marcurio and Stenvar, as well as others in my immediate circle, had been clued in on Serana’s true identity, but they supported my false claims to the crew.

I was absolutely freezing despite my cloak and extra layer of warm clothing. Oddly enough, the biting cold staved off my migraines, and the water was relatively calm. The entire time we waited, Stenvar held me close, my fur cloak, which someone had retrieved from the castle, wrapped around the both of us. After a while, when I noticed Marcurio’s lips were purple, he joined in on the huddle. A wave of healing magic every so often warmed us, at least superficially.

Periodically I would peek over the edge of the boat. Deep under the surface was a display of purple lights flashing in different locations, no doubt Serana using her Oblivion orbs to see in the utter darkness below. She had to have been underwater for about an hour. When I looked over the edge of the boat and saw no lights, I imagined that another sea monster had devoured my vampire friend. My mind showed me my future, one where I lived another few months until every last person in Skyrim starved to death. The Aldmeri Dominion then came swooping in, claiming the land, and then Alduin ate them all.

A loud splash ripped me back into reality. I screamed and grabbed at the two shivering men at my side.

At first, my brain saw as a massive silvery fish leaping onto the boat, but it was just Serana. She had flown out of the water and landed on her feet on the boat, golden bow in hand. Her laden black hair sloshed to and fro as she righted herself and stood before us, victorious.

“Took you long enough,” Marcurio said through chattering teeth.

. . . . . .

I stared at my hands. There was nothing special about them. They were just hands. But concentrating on each crease and freckle and scar kept my mind steady. I was doing my best not to have a breakdown.

“Who was he?”

Marcurio let my question hang for a moment. He sat down next to me on the bed and captured one of my hands, sandwiching it between his.

“A Dawnguard mage,” he said. “Matte, they called him.”

Matte. The name tattooed itself into my brain. Was he the first innocent person I had killed? It certainly felt that way.

“Did anyone… see what happened?”

“No,” said Marcurio. “We came in after hearing the noise of the Shout. You don’t remember any of it?”

I slowly shook my head. “I remember feeling… asleep, but not asleep. Something like when Meridia takes over, but, more complete. Meridia has used my body before, but never my mind.” I removed my hand from Marcurio’s grasp and buried my face in my palms. “I feel sick.”

“It wasn’t you, Deb. We know it was Torug taking over your body.”

“No. Marc, I feel—”

Whatever water I had imbibed came up in a spurt, projected onto the floor. The nausea came and stayed. I fell to my hands and knees. The dry heaving would not stop. Pins pricked my eyes, and I saw sparkling lights.

And then came the clouds again. Warm, loving clouds. I recalled feeling this way before, recently. I had fallen into clouds and heard Marcurio’s voice.

A calming spell. It must have been. Marcurio was a master at such magic.

The nausea faded, and I sat on my heals, breathing deep.

“Oh, Deb.” Marcurio’s voice was a low whisper, and heavy with pity. Why?

His hand reached for my face and urged me to turn my gaze to him. He examined something on my face. “Deb,” he said, “your eyes.”

I blinked. “White?” No, not likely. My vision had not blanched. Whenever my eyes went white, I always saw through a haze.

Marcurio was frowning. “Like a dragon’s.”

Oh.

The brief respite was over. My head was a sack of vibrating bricks, and my skin was stretched too tight. I fell into Marcurio. He cradled me there on the floor.

“Marc,” I said with a whimper.

He was stroking my hair. “Hmm?”

“I need to… tell you something.”

Marcurio waited a moment before asking, “Is it important?”

With my head leaning against his shoulder, I nodded.

“Does it have anything to do with why you told Serana to give me your rings?”

I nodded again.

. . . . . .

“We already tried that, Stenvar,” said Marcurio. “Twice. Both times the sky brightened, but only for a moment.”

“Then try again.”

“How many more times will it take to convince you?” The arguing was exhausting me. I closed my eyes and lay back down on the bed. “It needs to be all of my blood, just as it was all of Serana’s. We have thought through all of this. We experimented. The experiments failed.”

“There is another way, Deb. There is. We just need time to find it.”

“We don’t have time, Stenvar. Winter is here. Food stores are low. I’m sick. I am not getting better. Without proper food…” I winced, and let the nausea run its course before speaking again. “I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can do this. And I don’t know if my blood will work if I’m already dead.” I took a deep breath before adding, “This isn’t an argument you can win.”

The man collapsed onto the stool at the side of the bed. Face buried in his hands, he started sobbing. I reached out and rested my hand on his head. Marcurio kissed my forehead before leaving us to our grief.

It took a long time for Stenvar to settle into contemplative silence. At some point, I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was breakfast time. More porridge. Despite my churning stomach, I ate the five spoonfuls I was given. It stayed down.

“Your speech is better,” Stenvar said as I ate.

“Is it?”

He nodded. “Must’ve been Torug, or….”

I considered the notion. “Yeah, maybe.”

Stenvar helped me to the bucket. I managed to wipe myself. He washed my hands.

After laying me back down in bed, Stenvar knelt at its side, a convenient height. We gazed at one another in silence. He stroked my hair.

“I can’t live like this, Stenvar,” I whispered. “There are hundreds of them in me. I hear them all. I feel them. All. I don’t… don’t know how Torug was able.”

“Maybe he was made for that. You said he was different.”

“Yeah.”

Stenvar brought my hand to his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me before? That you would have to—” He choked on his words and started to cry again. I waited a moment before speaking.

“Before, we had no bow to cleanse. Now, we do.” I took in a slow, deep breath. “I have thought ‘this is what I was made for’ several times since I came to Skyrim, but this, now, is truly what I was made for. Of everything I have done, this is it. This is my purpose.”

“And Alduin? Is the World-Eater in your head, too?”

I closed my eyes for a moment, searching the souls within. I felt many swimming around like a school of fish packed into a goldfish bowl. Every so often, I felt less. But there were still hundreds. None of them, however, were Alduin, and I had no proof Torug had ever even encountered the black beast.

“No,” I told Stenvar. “I don’t think Alduin has been killed.”

Stenvar dropped my hand and stood. He walked several paces, and then walked back. He paced for a while.

“So if you kill yourself now to save the world, we still all die.”

“No one can know when Alduin will return. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in two thousand years. No one can know. But the gods made Torug and brought me here. If they need another Dragonborn, they will make one. And now we have Tongues.” I tried to sit up, but the room began to spin again. I groaned and collapsed onto my pillow. I fixed my gaze onto a small mold stain on the ceiling. “If Alduin came now we would be doomed anyway.”

“And what about your boy, hmm?” Stenvar said, finally standing still. “Your family? Are you in such a hurry to die? You didn’t even tell Marcurio until yesterday. He’s devastated!”

“We said our goodbyes. Marc is fine.”

“No. You just want to think he’s fine. But I see ‘im. He’s as broken as I am.”

“Stenvar….”

“What!?” The man’s arms swung down to his sides, hands outstretched, fingers tense. His chest heaved with shallow, quick breaths. He looked away and smoothed his face with his palm. “What?” he repeated, calmed.

I could have guilted him about guilting me into living. I could have attempted to yell back. I could have told him to piss off. I could have said a lot of things to make this easier for him.

I opted for a smile, and reached out to him. “My rock, remember?”

Stenvar’s shoulders sank with a deep sigh. He returned a sad smile.

There was just enough room for him to join me on the bed. In time, his quiet sobs faded into gentle snores. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his breath at the nape of my neck, his hand on my torso, and the warmth of his body pressed against mine.

. . . . . .

A long brass tub, found somewhere in this fort, was carried to my bedroom. I was helped inside, and the bow was laid on my body. A dagger would be used to draw out my blood directly into the tub. Not a drop would be missed – the bow would be bathed in it all. No other ritual acts were needed, Serana claimed.

Only Altanir, Serana, Neriwen, Marcurio, Brelyna, and Stenvar were in the room with me. Everyone else who still waited within the fort was locked out. Jenassa and Therodyn stood guard on the other side of the door. Both of them were armored and wielded swords, though I doubted they would have to stop anyone from entering. Everyone who might actually try to stop me was already in the room.

Altanir insisted on being the one to make the cuts, sparing the others. Before we began, while I still lay in bed, people took turns saying their goodbyes. Brelyna hadn’t stopped crying. Neriwen and Altanir never shed a tear. Serana and Stenvar had kept their distance. Darius, who had been holding both Dawnbreaker and my mask, came with Sharash to thank me, and to promise me that they would live out the rest of their lives in the service of Meridia.

As Altanir prepared his dagger, Marcurio sat by my side, holding my hand. He had put my rings, my only possessions worth keeping, into his coin purse. As soon as the children were old enough he would give Yrsarald’s ring to Virald, and my engagement ring to Flavia.

“Are you certain,” my mage friend whispered, “that there is no other way?”

“Marc,” I whispered back, “I am in a tub, naked, with an immortal weapon on my belly. I’m certain.”

He cracked a smile, but that did not stop a tear from rolling down his cheek. He leaned forward and, cupping my face with one hand, pulled me towards him slightly for a quick, familial kiss.

“I’ll be right here the whole time,” he breathed. “I’ll hold your hand the whole time.”

“Alright.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Marc. And tell them. Tell all of them.”

“I will.” He kissed my hand. “You’ll see him soon, Deb. You’ll see Yrsarald soon.”

I nodded, not wanting to have that discussion. I started to cry. My body tensed, and I closed my eyes. “Do it,” I whispered to Altanir.

The cut was made, and my wrist was placed over my abdomen, on the bow. Warmth trickled slowly down my torso. I waited for the second sting of sliced flesh. I waited some more.

The room fell silent. Even Brelyna had stopped sobbing.

When I opened my eyes, the entire room had been filled with a thick fog that turned everything and everyone silver-white. They were frozen in place. Altanir held the dagger above my left inner thigh, ready to cut. Stenvar and Brelyna were hugging, faces buried in each other’s neck. Marcurio was wincing. Neriwen was looking out the window. Serana stood cross-armed, appearing annoyed.

I, however, could move.

A blue static flashed to my right, followed by two more. When the blue lights dimmed, out of the fog stepped three figures, two men and a woman. They each wore familiar-looking hooded gold-and-red robes.

The two men stopped advancing, but the woman stepped up to the tub. She crouched down, reached for my bleeding wrist, and healed the cut with magic. The woman then threw back her hood and shot me a stern look.

“Come with me, Deborah,” were the words Elodie Storm-Hawk spoke to me. “There is another way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? No more unknown Norren words from now on, unless they're fancy or weird. Anything Torug knew, anything Miraak knew, and anything Paarthurnax knew is now in Deb's head. Hurrah.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few more chapters to go! 
> 
> Mood music: “Lean On Me” – J2/Sizzy Rocket

The temperature shifted abruptly from cold and dry to warm and humid. In a blink, I found myself not naked and lying in a tub surrounded by friends, but clothed in a red and gold robe and standing in a vaulted hall seemingly carved into or made from a giant tree. Elodie was at my side, patiently waiting for me to adjust, no doubt.

Instead of windows, the hall had gaps in the tree’s trunk to let in light and air. At the center of the hall was a shallow pool. The floor was not the same spongey substance that made up the floors of the mushroom houses of Tel Mithryn, but was rather a beautiful polished hardwood. Patterns were laid into the floor, cut into the tree’s natural – or supernatural – grain.

The majority of the tree hall – floor, wall, and ceiling – was inlaid with or encased by delicate gold filigree. In some places, patterns of gems, mostly sapphire and ruby, accented the gold. The gems were often placed in patterns resembling fruit. Above a tall pointed archway loomed the golden head of a deer with ruby eyes.

Thinking back to all the fantasy-related films I’d ever seen, in particular _Lord of the Rings_ , this tree hall absolutely screamed elvish.

“Welcome to Artaeum,” said Elodie.

Artaeum. The name sounded Latin. Why did it sound Latin? I ran through the finite list of Latin words I knew and came up with nothing. I then recalled that the moons of Nirn had Latin-like names – Masser and Secunda – and figured this was just one more example of Earth and Nirn experiencing some sort of linguistic diffusion from one to the other.

“This is the home of the Psijics,” she continued. “The island is part of Nirn, in the south, an area controlled by the Aldmeri Dominion, currently. But, the island is, at the moment, outside of time, and inaccessible to anyone who is not a Psijic.”

“Except for Dragonborns.”

She smirked. “Only because we brought you with us. Are you feeling any better?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then the spell has worked properly. I could not very well have a discussion with you if four hundred and thirty-seven dragons were interrupting us.”

I stared at Elodie. “Four hundred?”

“And thirty-seven. This is far less than the six hundred and seventeen dragon souls that you took into you when Torug died.”

I let that information sink in for a moment.

“But, why do I feel better? Am I… in my body?”

“Yes, you are in your body. We are currently outside of time, and your dragon soul is… sensitive to time. It was a complicated procedure, but I will try to explain. We were able to freeze time for you and those around you. In doing so, we succeeded in doing something we only hypothesized would happen. Your soul, and all of the souls you have taken into you, that have melded with yours, are also frozen in time. But the mortal part of you remains free – your mortal body, and your mortal mind. The turmoil you felt within you, that was causing your sickness, is in stasis. And now you are not so distracted.”

I digested her words carefully, willing myself to come to terms with the fact that, according to Elodie, I was currently walking around without a soul in a land without time. “Elodie,” I said.

“Yes?”

“You said that there was another way. Did you mean the bow? My blood sacrifice?”

“Yes, Deborah. I meant the bow. There is another way to cleanse it. Or, rather, another time. Come, walk with me.”

Elodie led me out of the hall toward a sparse grove of trees on which grew what looked to be peaches or oranges. It was difficult to tell from this small distance and through the delicate mist that blanketed the orchard. We sat down on a large wicker bench.

“It took longer than I would have liked,” Elodie began, “but the Psijics finally admitted that you needed to not die in the year two hundred and four.”

“I… what?”

“You cannot die yet, Deborah.”

“Yes, I understood that. But you said this island was outside of time. And yet, you waited to pull me aside until a cut had already been made. Everyone in that room including myself was completely grief-stricken!”

Elodie frowned and looked away. She tucked her hands into her belled sleeves. “The others wanted to see how far you would go to save the world.” She looked to me again. “We did not expect you to end your life so quickly.”

We sat in silence for a while. I watched as figures made their way along the line of trees in the orchard, collecting fruit.

I turned back to my friend. “Why do you need me alive, Elodie?”

“Because Alduin yet lives.”

 _I knew it_ , I thought as I nodded and looked down at my hands.

“We wait for you in the future at the Throat of the World,” she said. “You will know when the time has come, as will we. On that day, the bow will be cleansed, and your life on Mundus will end.”

Breath left my lungs. I inhaled quickly and deeply. Again. “When?”

“We cannot know until the time comes.”

“But what about the world as it is now? We can’t wait.”

“There will be no waiting, Deborah. The bow will be cleansed in the future, but the Psijics can operate outside of time, remember?”

Outside of time. “So, somewhere, somewhen, I am dying, and the bow is being cleansed?”

Elodie nodded.

 _Shit_. I breathed in slow and deep. For a while longer we sat in silence, watching the misty orchard.

“Do you know when Alduin will come?” I asked. “If he’ll end the world?” I thought a moment. “Should I kill him? I should kill him, right?”

“We cannot interfere on this matter. It is true that Alduin is causing problems on other planes, but he is not yet doing harm to the balance of the universe, or universes. We were forced to interfere when the artifacts of Magnus were being misused. Their magic was tearing this world apart, and others with it. We were forced to interfere with The Caller, known to you as The Summoner, because she was attempting something similar on a lower scale. But when Alduin comes for you, and he will, we cannot help you. We cannot help unless his actions threaten to break the Wheel.”

“So you don’t know when he’ll come,” I surmised.

“Prophecy is relative to actions taken over time. The future is written in puffs of clouds, not stone. And we cannot know the mind of a dragon, nor any other mind.”

“But he will not kill me. Not if you need me to kill him and then cleanse the bow.”

The hint of a smile crossed Elodie’s face.

With a burst of blue static, one of the Psijic men from earlier appeared. He was carrying the Bow of Auriel.

“It is done,” he said.

Elodie stood from the bench to retrieve the weapon. “The Bow of Auriel,” she said. “Artifact of the old elven god Auri-El, forged during the Dawn Time. With any other arrow it is just a bow, but with elven arrows….” A quiver full of golden arrows materialized with the appearance of the second Psijic man. “With elven arrows, the bow’s power is awakened. Corrupted, the bow holds the power to curse the sun to either momentarily or permanently veil it and open a portal allowing the powers of Oblivion to seep into Mundus. Cleansed, the bow breaks this curse, but more than this, it can cleanse the world of undead, over and over again.”

Elodie handed me the bow, and the quiver of arrows was strapped to my back.

“Aim an arrow at the sun,” she said.

“Now? Here? There is no curse here.”

She smiled.

I was no archer, and I worried what would happen to any arrow I shot at the sky. The sun hung in the direction of the orchards.

“The arrow will hit someone when it comes down,” I said.

“The arrow will not come down,” Elodie assured me.

I removed an arrow from the quiver, set it against the bow, and pulled back with surprisingly minimal effort. The moment I aimed the arrow at the sun, squinting despite the misty weather, a flash of light encircled the glowing orb. I relaxed my arms and lowered the bow.

“What was that?” I asked the three Psijics behind me.

“The enchantment of the bow,” said one of the men, “helps the wielder find the sun through the darkest of clouds. For good reason.”

I breathed deep and pulled the bowstring back again, aimed and found the sun, closed my eyes against the vibrant onslaught, and loosed the arrow. Instantly a flash made me see red behind closed eyelids. I opened them to see rays of light – sometimes called god rays – reaching down to the ground. A breath later, the light was gone, and the misty orchard faded back to grey.

“That light does harm to the undead,” said Elodie, “more harm than your Shouts and spells combined. Shoot one of these arrows into the sun when you return to Skyrim. When the sky is clear, do it again and again until these arrows are spent. I will be with you, and will take the bow once it is finished.”

“Take the bow? Won’t we need it to kill more vampires?”

“No. The light of Aetherius will once again warm Nirn, and magic will be rejuvenated. Hunting the last of the vampires will not require further use of this artifact. The Psijics will protect it, along with all other artifacts we have saved from the hands of those who would use them in malevolence.”

Elodie grasped my shoulder and with a flash we were back in the small, silvery, frozen bedroom. Altanir still leaned over the tub, and Brelyna and Stenvar still held one another. The silver fog dissipated, and time recommenced.

Elodie and I stood by the closed door, watching the scene. Altanir’s black hair flitted about as he looked up and down the empty tub. Eyes wide with confusion, he finally looked up across the room to find me. Serana jumped when she realized I was behind her. The others reacted to the surprised sounds in similar fashion. Marcurio, his back to me, watched the others before finally standing and turning around. Tears streaked his face and blood stained his hand. His breath faltered with a sob, and he approached briskly and enveloped me in his arms. He then took a step back, gazed at me another moment, and then turned to Elodie and whispered her name.

“Hello, Marcurio,” Elodie said with a smile.

“By Azura!” exclaimed Brelyna before she ran up to Elodie and jump-hugged her. She immediately started sobbing. “I know you did something,” she said. “I know it. Whatever you did, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

A knock came at the door. “Is everything alright in there?” The voice belonged to Jenassa.

Brelyna ran to the door and unlocked it. The door opened inward and slammed against the wall. Brelyna wrapped her arms around her one-armed warrior and planted a forceful kiss on her lips.

“Elodie’s here,” said Brelyna. “And Deb—”

Everyone turned to regard me, still dressed in a fancy, hefty gilded robe and wielding the bow and arrows. It all felt too heavy. Far too heavy. I wavered, but was caught by Marcurio and Elodie. Stenvar rushed to my side to lend his body as a crutch.

“Everything will be explained later,” said Elodie. She turned to me. “Do not waste any more time.”

I nodded and looked to my gawking friends.

“Lead me outside,” I said to them.

 

As we walked through the halls of the fort, me leaning on Stenvar the entire way, we picked up a train of people. Dawnguard, mages, even Isran followed us outside where it was still dark, and still snowing. Krikit was there in the courtyard, barking up a storm and jumping at my emergence. The red, swirling sun was about midway across the sky.

The frigid air did wonders for my spinning head and floundering stomach, but there was no way I was going to be able to use the bow. Certainly anyone could do it; the wielder shouldn’t matter. I turned to Neriwen and gave her a lingering glance.

“What?” she finally said, big red-brown eyes blinking.

“The bow. Use the bow.”

Someone removed the weapon from my shoulder, and the quiver from my back. Elodie walked the items over to Neriwen who accepted them, but eyed me curiously.

“This is it, isn’t it?” she asked. “The bow you’ve been talking about.”

“It is,” I replied.

Neriwen looked to Serana and then back at me, perplexed. “But, how?”

Elodie strapped the quiver to her back and planted an arrow in her hand. “Aim it at the Bloodcursed Sun,” the Psijic said. “The moment you see a light, loose the arrow.”

Neriwen looked back to me, and I nodded.

The roguish elf turned to the sky, tested the bow’s resistance, and then aimed. She winced with the light Elodie told her to expect, and a heartbeat later the arrow soared into the grey-red sky, disappearing.

The world fell silent. No one breathed.

We waited, and we waited. The longer my heart thudded the more my hopes were dashed, and I closed my eyes.

A gasp and a flash bade me to look up. Swirling above, mixing with the red of what Torug and Elodie had called the Bloodcursed Sun was a swirling golden light. Something was happening, but it was no different from what had happened with previous experiments with elven arrows bathed in a bit of my blood, or the bow washed with a bit of my blood, or both. All of the combinations had lightened the sky momentarily.

But then the golden light grew brighter, exponentially. Only then did I remember what Elodie had told me about the light this bow’s enchantment brought down onto the land.

I left Stenvar’s grasp to find Serana. After stumbling and shoving my way through the crowd, I could not find her, nor Altanir. The moment I opened my mouth to call out her name, the world was awash in bright, white light.

 

Warm. I felt so, so warm. I was overheating in the robe. I felt heavy, weighted, full.

Everyone around me was covering their eyes with their hands or forearms or shields, slowly lowering them, gazes still trained at the sky.

The bright, overcast sky. A golden globe shined through the grey. The snow had lightened into flurries.

The world once again fell quiet, but not for long.

Someone called out to Talos, another to Stendarr, and yet another to Arkay. Cries and whoops and hollers and claps flooded my ears, but my thoughts were with Serana.

_Please tell me you stayed inside._

I collapsed forward and braced myself on my knees. Altanir came to my aid, asking if I was alright.

Another flash of light. Neriwen must have shot another arrow into the sun, per Elodie’s instruction. Seven more flashes followed.

It was over. It was done.

And somewhen, atop Snow Throat, I was dead.

Altanir helped me to stand straight as Elodie approached. The Psijic grasped my shoulder.

“You will improve with time,” she said quietly before thumbing my forehead. “You will defeat them with the help of the white dragon.”

Before I could question how Elodie knew about Paarthurnax, she was gone, and the bow with her.

The crowd, continuing their celebrations, dispersed to various other parts of the courtyard and fort. Krikit was still barking, and I finally greeted the excited pup. Eventually Stenvar, Neriwen, and Isran found me and approached. Stenvar took over his self-assigned crutch duty and gave me a light kiss on the temple.

“Well,” said Isran, “you did it. Somehow, you actually did it, and yet here you stand. The Dawnguard thanks you. Where will you go from here? I’m headed to Windhelm, but many of my troops will return to their posts, make sure the rest of the vampires are gone. I doubt what we did today killed all of them.”

With that, Isran left, but not before giving his nephew’s shoulder a brief clap.

_Where do you go from here, Deb?_

I turned to Stenvar, his face a breath’s distance from mine. He smiled.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “True Colors” by Zedd/Kesha

“Did you want to die?”

Judging by Stenvar’s tone, he already guessed the answer.

“No,” I said, “but, yes.”

He looked away, wounded.

“I knew was I ready the moment I learned about my blood. It… was a shock, but, I knew the time was right, almost… almost meant to be. I knew that I would have given my life if I had to.”

“Because he was dead.” Yrsarald. He meant Yrsarald.

I looked at my hands and said, “Yes.” There was no sense in lying.

Stenvar dropped the topic, and we sat, silent, in a private cabin of one of the ships returning to Solitude. The cabin was rather fancy, cluttered with decorations and collections of all sorts of weapons and finery. The ship belonged to the East Empire Trading Company. I had not realized we had been loaned merchant ships and not war ships. I wouldn’t have known the difference.

I was still not feeling well, and the movement of the boat was not helping. I opted for suffering in privacy rather than on the deck, vomiting into a bucket instead of over the side of the ship. It was safer for Krikit to remain below deck anyway.

Today we would be arriving at the Solitude port. Today was also the first day of the new year – the first of Morning Star, year two hundred and five of the fourth era. I did the math – it was the year 2018 on Earth. My little sister would be turning the big three-zero this year. And I wasn’t there to tease her about it.

I kept hearing about how it was a big deal that we were arriving, victorious, on the first day of the new year. It was heavily symbolic – the festival held on that day was called the New Life Festival. There would be free ale at taverns. Neriwen joked that we would be getting free ale for life.

Neriwen was among the many celebrants who were fully enjoying our victory while also praising the sacrifices of those we lost. For the dead who did fall, they were either burned or buried at sea while I was in a quasi-coma. I was informed that the thralls – the cattle – were mercy killed. Some of them were indeed relatives of those who fought, and the decision to kill them was made by those few relatives. The free-minded infants of parents unknown were saved, and they were now in the care of the Dawnguard or any other person who volunteered to adopt them.

Stenvar had mentioned thinking about adopting one of the little girls, but felt he was too old to begin being a parent. I told him that he was crazy and there was nothing wrong with being a new parent at his age – he was only fifty-five. _Fifty-five and a half_ , he had corrected me with a grin. It was one of the few moments these days that I found him in good humor. Much of the time, he and most of my friends were in rather dark moods.

We should have been ecstatic. We were alive. Many of those who fought with us were alive. The three Tongues were all alive. The world was safe, for now.  

But Altanir was despondent over Serana’s death or disappearance; the last time anyone saw her was just after I returned from Artaeum. Marcurio fretted for his family’s welfare and those at Fort Dawnguard. Stenvar fretted over my welfare and that of his family in Solitude. Krikit fretted over me and only me, and I fretted about everything and everyone, present and future.

Were those in Winterhold still alright, still feeding themselves with fish and underground gardens? Did the vampires ever find and infiltrate the warded valley within which stood Fort Dawnguard? Did the vampires flee the castle and attack Solitude in retribution? Was I going to die this year, which was indeed no longer the year two hundred and four which Elodie said I would not die in?

I was over-encumbered by fear and worry.

In the bed of the cabin I curled up with Krikit, who was content to be with me and eat whatever scraps we had to spare. Stenvar seemed content, too, however fretful. We didn’t speak much while on the ship, but neither of us were bothered by this. The laughter and songs of the merry filled our ears with happier thoughts.

. . . . . .

Upon arriving in Solitude, we were relieved to see that its docks and city, from what we could see of it, were unharmed. The towering palace allowed people to view our arrival, and we were greeted by cheers. A royal escort was immediately sent down, and provisions and quarters were prepared. Many, however, chose to go their own way, to seek out their families. The Dawnguard and Telvanni made preparations to leave as well.

From the docks me and my party, plus dog, were driven in an elaborate horse-drawn carriage all the way to the palace, citizens waving and cheering as we passed. The palace was as beautiful as I had remembered, still retaining its stained-glass windows without any hint of damage. The escorts led us up the grand staircase from the palace foyer to the throne room where Jarl Elisif stood to greet us all, dog included.

Elisif the Fair, she was called, and fair she was with porcelain skin and delicate features. Her ruby-studded diadem outshone her pale eyes but was matched in brilliance by her bright red hair. Her posture gave an air of stern sovereignty.

Everyone with me kneeled, and out of cultural courtesy I did as well. Krikit remained standing, however.

_Krikit bows to no one._

“Deborah the Red,” the jarl began. “We meet again. This time under different, and improved circumstances. I have heard rumors of what you have been doing for our people. Rumors that now appear to have been true. Was it truly you who brought back the sun?”

I stood, not really caring if I was meant to wait for her to tell me to stand. Stenvar, Neriwen, Marcurio, Altanir, and Isran all stood with me. Krikit barked.

“No,” I said, prompting looks from my companions. “Not I alone,” I clarified. “It is complicated, but I had help. The help of hundreds, some of them no longer living. Without Altanir,” I said, motioning toward the man, “I might have died last year. And, I would not have met his uncle Isran, leader of the Dawnguard. Nor would I have met Neriwen, who is one of the best and bravest archers I have ever known. And without my friends and family—” I smiled at Marcurio and Stenvar “—I would not have survived all these years. Without these people and more, and without the gods, I would not be standing here today.”

Elisif stepped down from her throne’s platform. “We received a runner several days ago with news that you were on your death bed. But here you are, seemingly unharmed.”

“The work of the gods, magic, and of very good friends. I am still unwell. I may be unwell for a long time. Killing Torug....” I paused, wondering how I could explain what had happened. “Killing Torug nearly caused my own death. But today… I am having a good day, today. Seasickness aside.”

The jarl smiled. “Hmph. A very auspicious new year, indeed.” Elisif eyed me as she stepped forward again to stand directly before us. “May you continue to improve,” she said low, offering me a warm smile. She then turned to those at my sides. “Please, tell me your full names so that my steward can ensure you are remembered properly in the archives.”

My companions did as the jarl asked, but she was not satisfied with Neriwen’s lack of titles or family name. Neriwen protested, saying it was no big deal, that she was just doing what she could to help. Then Altanir stepped in.

“Sunbringer,” he said. “Her name is Neriwen Sunbringer.”

We were surprised by Altanir’s claim, none more than Neriwen herself, but it was true. She was the one who brought back the sun. I just helped.

Neriwen sighed, but then smiled at her dearest friend and mouthed, “Asshole.” I loved Neriwen.

“Our country is disordered, confused,” said the jarl. “The civil war is over, the dragon attacks and the rising of the dead have stopped, the vampires have been killed and the sun returned, but we still have no crowned ruler. And, now, the city of the once-contender of the crown belongs to a band of vampire hunters.”

“Word travels fast,” Isran mumbled.

“Indeed,” Elisif said with a nod. “The oldest city in Skyrim does need someone to watch over it until a jarl can be chosen. I do not have reason to question the Dragonborn’s judgement. If you need any help, do not hesitate to ask.”

Isran nodded his thanks.

“To make matters even more chaotic,” the jarl continued, “the emperor was assassinated not long ago, his family with him. Cyrodiil is in as much disarray as we are. And, what’s more, the Aldmeri Dominion has taken root there after seemingly fleeing Skyrim.” Elisif turned and strode back to her throne, gracefully sitting down. “I think what is best for Skyrim right now is to heal, to rebuild. We must forget our conflicting pasts and join together in safeguarding our futures. We can call it a continued weapon-rest, if we must. As the widow of High King Torygg, I remain regent. But, in time, the jarls that yet live shall meet and discuss such matters.”

Elisif tented her fingers and pressed them to her lips. “I was saddened to hear of the loss of Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced. His politics aside, he was a good man, and a good jarl. And I can appreciate you, Deborah, giving up any claim to Windhelm’s throne. Regardless, when the time comes for the jarls to meet, I will summon you. Your council will be heeded.”

“I… alright.”

“You all deserve a long rest,” said the jarl. “You may stay in our city for as long as you like. But I ask that you remain in the palace for the moment; soon I will make an announcement regarding the New Life Festival, and regarding all of you. After this there will be festivities, but you may go as you please. I will make certain that all the taverns in the city know you and treat you with the respect you deserve. Your expenses will be paid by my steward.”

“Thank you, Jarl Elisif,” I said, and made some sort of bow.

 

The announcement that Elisif wanted to make was that the first day of Sun’s Dawn, the month following now, would henceforth be the day of remembrance for the sun returning to Tamriel. The Sun Festival. We were told that it was more meaningful to celebrate the sun returning on this day, despite the sun having returned on what was apparently the twenty-seventh of Evening Star.

A priest took over Elisif’s announcement, explaining that every morning on the first day of Sun’s Dawn, everyone in Tamriel should give thanks to Magnus and his Light for warming our skin and our crops. He left out the part where the sun also powered magical spells.

The “dawn of Sun’s Dawn” would also be a day of remembrance for me, and for the Dawnguard, and for all of whom the priest referred to as the Golden Warriors, which he mistakenly acknowledged my present companions being. We were not Golden Warriors, and I was annoyed that Elisif or the priest or someone else got the information wrong, but I was never given a chance to correct the error. I supposed in the end it didn’t matter – Sharash’s warriors would be remembered at least by their title, and perhaps their continued dedication to Meridia would earn them even more recognition.

Later, Stenvar mentioned that it was unusual for a Priest of the Divines to suggest someone worship a deity such as Magnus, but the circumstances certainly called for it, he admitted.

. . . . . .

We stayed with Stenvar’s family for several days, during which time Marcurio sent a letter with the Dawnguard who would make the two-week journey to the fort. He instructed Bird to bring the family to Whiterun, with Honey and her colt too, and that we would meet him there after we journeyed around the western part of the country. Marcurio could have traveled with the Dawnguard back to the southeast, but he claimed he would have worried too much about me. The children had three adults to care for them. The children weren’t known to have dragons attacking their souls.

Our plan was to check on the villages and cities in the west, to help anyone who needed it with supplies brought with us from Solitude, and to also show the citizens of Skyrim that I was alive – Stenvar’s idea. The Dawnguard would do the same in the east.

Our first stop was the temple of Meridia, where we would part ways with Darius and Sharash and their Golden Warriors. The temple was bright and clean, and alive with several dozen civilians living within. They had been sheltering there from vampire attacks; from this, the temple of Meridia was likely the safest place one could be. The civilians noticed that the sun curse had been lifted, but were still scared to leave. We didn’t blame them.

Darius did a fine job at maintaining the temple grounds and rooms. Followers, with Sharash’s help, had built several small houses outside the temple. Darius told me that he had given the fledgling village the name of Kilkreath, named after the small mountain the temple was built upon.

Upon entering the room in the temple where I had first found Dawnbreaker, I was amazed at the difference in ambience. The hall was glowing with the fire of lit braziers. Various sigils had been painted on the walls. The room was being used as a shrine, and a place where people could pray and perform rites.

I approached the golden stand where Dawnbreaker had been contained, removed the sword from her sheath, and stared at her for a long time. Her white gem still glowed in response to my touch, and her runes still flared. Her blade was not marred by any stains or dings. She was flawless. A beautiful artifact.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the sword, and to Meridia by extension. I kissed the glowing gem, and then lowered the sword into the slot of the stand. When the tip of the sword reached the bottom, its gem and runes flashed brightly and then dimmed completely.

Putting the sword back where I found it felt right. Everything about this temple felt right. I wondered, however, what to do about this mask, and asked Darius his opinion. He had an idea.

We took the mask to the gargantuan statue of Meridia atop the temple and placed it over the light that emerged from the statue’s base, from the temple within. The same light that shined eternal upon the faceted orb that still hovered between Meridia’s open hands. When Darius released his hold on the mask, it sped skyward and immediately settled upon the statue’s face. The eyes glowed blue.

Darius and I wondered what this meant. The mask was not Meridia’s before, but rather became mine, and hers, after it was stolen from Hermaeus Mora’s Champion, Miraak, the first Dragonborn.

We thought that perhaps the mask would remain on the statue until needed again. Or until some other Daedra Lord stole it to give to their own Champion.

“Maybe she’s using the mask to sense the undead,” Darius mused.

The following morning, as we rode away from the temple on the horses gifted to us by the city of Solitude, I looked back onto the newly gilded visage of Meridia. The statue vaguely faced northeast, meaning the mask now reflected both the light of the orb and the colorful sunrise.

. . . . . .

Four days and a lot of snow and rain later, we arrived at the Markarth outskirts. The farms and homesteads were deserted, but in the distance we could see lit braziers, suggesting the city’s occupation. Indeed, the city was absolutely full of people, many more than were in Solitude. The inns were packed with nowhere to sit let alone sleep, so Stenvar led us all to the temple of Dibella. There we were offered bedrolls to sleep upon, and all the food they could spare.

I was thankful for the rest, and for the cold stone of the temple. My dizziness returned that evening, but the cool, cellar-like climate helped somewhat. One of the priestesses offered to help heal me, but I declined, explaining that the sickness I was feeling was not curable with magic.

Marcurio later explained to me that the priestess had not actually been talking about healing magic. He had watched the entire exchange, and was greatly amused that the woman’s flirtations had been completely wasted on my obliviousness.

Stenvar gave himself the evening to visit with Fjotra, Dibella’s living vessel, and to pray. He also met with other priestesses and men like him, who were Dibellan priests in all but name.

“I wanna tell ‘em that I’m retired,” he had told me. “At least regardin’ the Spring Ritual. I might visit in First Seed – we’ll see – but as a guest, not a Guide.”

Guide. That was what male Dibellan priests were called, officially. They guided people into the religion, among other things.

When Stenvar finished his meetings and prayers, he walked with me around the temple, telling me about various festivals and rites, and giving me the history of several artifacts that the temple housed. There were also murals spanning the lengths of most of the walls. The paintings depicted the very festivals and rites Stenvar was telling me about, including the Spring Ritual, held on the first day of First Seed. This mural left nothing to the imagination, capturing moments of group ecstasy as well as private couplings, all of them presided over by priests and priestesses, both of Dibella and Mara.

“Priests and priestesses of Mara come to the Spring Ritual to bless couples hoping to conceive,” Stenvar explained. “The private rooms are for these couples as well as the Guidances.” Guidances, of course, were the rites where Guides initiated people in the ways of Dibellan sexual rites. “The Guidances begin with Dibella’s Blessing,” he said, gesturing to one scene on the mural where a tattooed woman, hands raised high, stood on her knees before another woman. Golden magic, accented by pink flowers, swirled around the two women in their private room.

“Is it true that a lot of people don’t like Dibella?” I asked. “Or those who worship her?”

“Hmph, yeah.” Stenvar led me to a table on which stood several statuettes. Each of them depicted sexual acts, one of them a sort of bondage. “Some people think Dibella is only about sex, or only about wild group sex. While that is a part of it, it’s far from all we’re about. Some people just don’t approve of celebrating sex for the sake of sex. Even some of Mara’s worshippers think sex should only be about love or makin’ children, or even just for married folk.” He chuckled. “To each their own, I say.”

We moved on to another room that contained more statuettes and small paintings. None of these were sexual, but instead captured life in various forms from farm animals to nature scenes. One painting stood out from the rest in its artistic quality. It was simple, a sunset or sunrise over snow-capped mountains, but I really liked it. It made me feel warm and, for whatever reason, a little homesick for this real or imagined mountain range.

As we regarded this orange-pink and grey painting, Stenvar casually wrapped am arm around my waist, not pulling me close to him, but simply resting his hand on my hip. The light embrace felt good. It felt right. But it made my feeling of homesickness even stronger.

The last room Stenvar took me to was one full of instruments, and expanding from this room were small practice rooms, each with a heavy door to mute sound. Stenvar picked up a random lap harp and gave it a strum. A crooked grin crossed his face.

“What?” I asked, chuckling.

“You don’t see these in Skyrim, much,” he said as he picked at some of the strings, trying to find a tune. “I think they’re elven. Altmeri maybe.” He laughed. “I bet someone stole this from the Thalmor.”

I smiled, and walked around the room. There must have been hundreds of instruments. Flutes were aligned in slots like utensils in a drawer, a velvety lining protecting them. Lutes decorated one wall while small drums hung from straps on another. And then there were the odd instruments like the small harp Stenvar still plucked at and a larger one, some stringed things that looked like sitars, smaller items like dried gourd rattles, and metal tubes that resembled wind chimes.

Finally, Stenvar found his fingering and began to play something pleasant. I realized he had previously been tuning the small harp. Maybe the man had what was known as perfect pitch, a thing as elusive to me as unicorns.

I found a comfortable chair and reclined, allowing Stenvar’s voiceless serenade to calm my persistent ailments. I thought I might have dozed off for a moment because I hadn’t noticed Stenvar moving closer to me, nor his strumming coming to an end. When I opened my eyes he was half-sitting on a table, watching me. He smiled and stood, and offered his hand.

“Come on. Let’s go get some sleep.”

. . . . . .

Falkreath, the biggest town in the south, was nothing more than a pile of charred wood and stone foundations. Its beautiful homes and trees, gone. Hoping to have better luck in Helgen, a fortified town, we traveled another day east. We found the place thriving, with new structures, houses and shops, built both within and outside the tall stone walls. We were told that the only survivors of the town of Falkreath were farmers and other citizens, and that the jarl and his family were dead or missing. A retired solider mentioned that Helgen was going to claim its place as the hold’s new capital. They had even elected their own jarl, a man named Lod.

We were told that the supplies from Solitude came just in time, as the stores in Helgen were running low. The people had been surviving mainly on salted meats, fresh fish and mollusks, and dried breads. Solitude happened to have accumulated a fair amount of preserved fruits and vegetables, which we gladly gave to the new jarl of Helgen.

The next morning we traveled north. It was a two-day ride to Whiterun, passing through and camping in the abandoned and half-ruined town of Riverwood.

At Whiterun’s stables we were greeted by city guards, just as we had been upon arriving at Solitude. I was about to dismount and hand off my pretty dun mare to the stablehand when the guard stopped me.

“Don’t dismount your horses,” she said.

My heart stopped. “Why not?”

“Jarl Balgruuf wants you to ride through the gates mounted.”

 _The fuck?_ I looked to Altanir and Stenvar. They both shrugged.

Neriwen was not happy. She didn’t much like horses and often whined about her butt being numb. “Do we have to?” she asked.

“Suck it up, Sunbringer,” Altanir retorted as he kicked his brown horse forward, following the gestures of the guard. “You’re a hero now, like it or not.”

The elf whined louder. “What do horses have to do with being a hero?”

“It’s symbolic,” Marcurio explained. “We earned a rest from walking on our own two feet.”

“I don’t know the word for it,” I said, “but I know what Balgruuf is doing. He must have heard we were coming. Probably planned this. There was a custom in my world, in ancient times, where conquering heroes returned and rode their horses, their armies behind them, into the city. Any other time, this was illegal. But it was fine after winning a war. It would be better if we were on white horses, but I suppose that doesn’t matter so much.”

“It’s called a victory march,” said Stenvar. “And it’s the same as you described, Deb. Except for the white horses. The color doesn’t matter. It would be more fitting if the Dawnguard were here with us, but we have Altanir.”

“I’m not actually in the Dawnguard,” he said.

“While I was at the fort,” said Marcurio, “they officially named me a Dawnguard mage.”

Stenvar shrugged. “Close enough. And instead of the spoils of war, we have food.”

“And our lives,” Altanir added, under his breath.

Forward we rode, the roar of a crowd increasing in volume the closer we came. As we approached the main gate, I saw what looked to be a flurry of snow. Upon closer inspection I could see figures atop the palisade, one on each side of the gate, tossing something into the air.

Flower petals.

Through a shower of pink and white, we entered the city. My horse balked momentarily with the sudden increase in cries and cheers. If Markarth had been crowded, Whiterun was absolutely overflowing with people. We were continuously showered with petals and praise.

We passed Eyleif’s house, but I didn’t see her in the crowd.

The horses carried us all the way to the courtyard where the dying tree Gildergreen once stood. By some miracle – and perhaps it was exactly that, as it was winter – the tree was in full bloom, its petals decorating its bows as well as the ground.

Standing under its shade was Balgruuf, dressed in more finery than I had previously remembered him wearing. Next to him was a priestess, likely one of Kyne’s. A guard told us to dismount, and we retrieved our belongings and sacks of supplies before the horses were led back to the stables.

The triumph felt a bit anticlimactic, but it would have been dangerous to ride the horses all the way up the narrow steps to the palace.

Balgruuf smiled at me and approached. He regarded me for a moment, and without a word opened his arms wide before wrapping them around me in a very tight, almost intimate hug. I smiled through my discomfort. Krikit barked at the unknown man attacking his human.

The jarl then backed away but held my upper arms. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough and breathy. Was he crying? His eyes looked wet. “What you have done, Deborah,” he continued, “is nothing short of a miracle. Praise be to Kynareth. The day you brought back the sun, that very moment, the priestesses claim Gildergreen began to flower and its wood heal. I was not there, but I believe it, looking at this.”

His arm still around my shoulders, Balgruuf turned to look up at the tree’s colorful canopy. “I have heard tales of your actions – at Windhelm, across the Sea of Ghosts, and back west.” He turned back to me. “Elisif wrote me, to send word of your success, of your companions, and about the Sun Festival. I think the new holiday is a wonderful idea, and I hope you will remain here to celebrate it with us.”

I stared slack-jawed at the jarl. “Yes. Well, I think that is my plan. To stay in Whiterun, if that is alright.”

Balgruuf laughed. “Alright?” The man lightly jostled me, his fingers digging into my cloak. “Any city would be blessed for you to call it home. Please, come with me to the palace. Accommodations have been made for you and your companions.”

 

Our final batch of supplies were handed off to the city steward, and we were shown to our private quarters. I immediately took a hot, suds-filled bath, and drank my fill of honeyed water. I longed to open the bottle of spiced wine that was in the cupboard, but knew my body couldn’t handle alcohol yet. I picked at the food on the platter in the room, not wanting to overwhelm my system. Seeing and smelling the tantalizing cheeses made sustaining difficult, though.

Later in the evening, I was asked to follow a guard to the balcony. While I waited for Balgruuf, two guards standing silent behind me, I viewed the darkening landscape. The strong wind flowing down from Snow Throat felt wonderful. I took off my cloak, letting the air chill me to the bone. The simple dress I was given fitted well, and as it was made of cotton, it allowed the air to kiss my skin.

“Deb?”

The voice ripped my mind to the past – to a small house, on a small river island, in a small town.

Ralof.

I turned to see a tall, large man, veiled by shadow and silhouetted by torch light in the background. The guards, flanking him, remained where they were. The figure stepped out of the shadow and into the light of the moons and stars. His face was disfigured, snub-nosed and scrunched, bat-like. His eyes glowed a bright gold.

“You’re still—”

“I tried,” he said, taking another step forward. “I tried to find this Falion you mentioned, but by the time I got to Morthal I was told he had gone missing. I found other vampires near there. They didn’t attack me, and they smelled odd. They said they had been waiting for Falion to collect materials for their cure. They didn’t know what happened to him, or what he needed for the cure. We… just accepted this. Well, some of us did. One of the women, she walked out into the sun, and kept walking.”

He hung his head. His shoulders sank. I approached him.

“I came back here. Eyleif accepted me into her home again. I stayed in the basement as I had before. Then… the sky. I felt so strong, Deb. I knew something happened, something bad, more than just a storm. Then, when the city was attacked, I knew I had to do something. I hid in the shadows, ambushed vampires. Eventually someone found out. Eyleif had to kill someone to defend me. We… we finally told Balgruuf. He should have killed me. I would have killed me. But he took me in, told his guards to protect me. He assigned me to the night’s watch at first, but then I patrolled during the day as well. I could – there was no sun anymore, and I don’t need to sleep.”

I raised my hand to his cheek and pushed back his blonde hair. His flesh was ice cold, but his gaze was warm. Ralof grazed my wrist with his nose, and then flinched and backed away.

“It’s my blood, isn’t it? It smells good to you.”

Ralof rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I heard about you. Heard stories. Is it true? That your blood kills vampires?”

I took a step back. “Where did you hear this?”

“From travelers. Couriers. The Dawnguard.”

“The Dawnguard? Do they know? How many people know about you?”

“I don’t know. But I stayed hidden, wore a mask that somewhat covered my eyes. If anyone found out with magic, I ran. I can run fast, now. But, Deb.”

He stepped forward, and I stepped back, bumping against the balcony parapet.

“Stop walking away from me,” he said before approaching. “Please.” He reached down and grasped my hand. “Is it true?”

Nearly whimpering, I answered, “Yes. All it takes is one bite, for most. It took much more to kill Torug.”

Ralof’s fingers grazed the soft under side of my wrist. “He’s dead now. The vampires are mostly gone, aren’t they? The sun’s returned.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not needed anymore.”

“Ralof—” I cut myself off and walked away from him and the parapet, toward the dining table. I walked my way around it, putting the furniture between me and Ralof.

“I don’t want to do it here,” he said. “Not on this balcony. Not where it’d cause a mess. I would leave, take a vial of it with me.”

“Ralof!”

“It’s decided, Deb. I don’t know when I’ll do it, but I won’t last long now, not with the country vampire-crazy and the sun returned. Balgruuf and his guards can only protect me for so long. Gerdur has agreed to help Eyleif with Sighulf. I… I don’t want to be around when the boy begins making memories. I don’t want him to know me like this.”

I slumped onto one of the dining chairs and stared up at the stars. The last time I had looked at them, truly looked, was after Yrsarald and I became engaged. The stars looked twice as bright now.

After a while I said, “I have some vials. Or, rather, my friends do. I’ll get you one.”

Ralof walked up behind me, squeezed my shoulder, and bent down to kiss the top of my head. “Now that that is over with,” he said as he sat himself down beside me, “I want to know everything. Tell me everything that has happened in your life. I want to hear it from your lips.”

Ralof reached for my hand and held it while I cried.

. . . . . .

The next day I met with Balgruuf in his private quarters. We discussed all that had happened, to me and to Skyrim, and his plans for the future. He told me of a property that, while outside the city walls, was available to a new family, and suggested that I take a look at it. I told him I would, but that I would probably feel more at home within the city proper. He pressed the matter though, urging me to at least be open to the idea. There were plenty of houses to choose from, any of which he would be giving me for no money at all, but he thought I would like this one in particular. He even gave me the key.

When we started to talk about the future of Skyrim, he led me to a study adjacent to his bedroom. Inside there was a chest which he unlocked and opened, and pulled from it an odd-looking thing that looked to be made up of dragon teeth. Indeed, aside from the iron setting, the dozen tooth-like objects were anchored by bone.

“This is the Jagged Crown,” Balgruuf said as he placed it upon his head. “It was worn by ancient kings and queens of Skyrim, going back thousands of years.” The hefty thing matted down the man’s long yellow hair and even scrunched his forehead. The jarl removed the crown and placed it on a table. “Yrsarald, or his men anyway, retrieved it and delivered it to me as part of our agreement.”

“What agreement?”

Balgruuf stroked one of the teeth with a fingertip. “To crown me as High King.”

I nodded. “I have heard the rumors, and Yrsarald admitted as much to that.”

He chuckled. “It was supposed to be secret.”

“It was.”

Balgruuf eyed me, picked up the crown, and put it back in the chest. “It’s solely symbolic of course, but the crown of ancient kings will be one of the biggest boosts to my claim, now that Yrsarald is gone.”

The jarl turned to me, and with sad eyes conveyed his sympathy. He refrained from speaking the words, though, which I thought wise. I didn’t particularly want to be dragged into a pit of despair today.

“It is also said that the crown contains the souls of those who have worn it before. I doubt it, but, what is true does not matter if it helps my claim.”

“Elisif says she’s – what was the word? – regent.”

“Mm, yes. She is. I’m surprised she did not say outright that she was High Queen. But, she and I did agree to continue this weapon-rest. The last thing this country needs is another civil war.” He paused a moment before adding, “I suspect she knows I will challenge her claim as Queen. Another worry for another day.”

We walked out of his quarters and into the main hall where his three children were practicing with wooden swords.

“I am told,” Balgruuf said, “that your family should arrive within the month from Fort Dawnguard. They are welcome to stay here in the palace, too, if they wish. For now.”

“Thank you. Actually, Marcurio is already here. It is his husband that will be coming, and their child. And my son. Yrsarald’s son.”

Balgruuf nodded. “Virald Yrsaraldsen.” We exchanged a look, and he chuckled. “News about The Dragonborn travels faster than dragons themselves. I will never understand why you gave up claim to the throne, even for your son, Yrsarald’s only heir. But that is your decision to make. The people of Eastmarch, any that yet live, will name their jarl. In the meantime I hope this Isran is up to the challenge of stewardship.”

“Yes, well, Isran is a hard worker. He commanded the Dawnguard troops and helped to win this vampire war. He’ll be fine.”

“Some people are upset that you gave Windhelm of all cities to a Redguard. I personally don’t care, nor should anyone else. But Nords will be Nords.”

I laughed.

One of Balgruuf’s sons feigned a dramatic death, having been run through in the underarm by his sister’s wooden sword.

“I am going to make a proclamation,” Balgruuf said quietly. “I am only Jarl of Whiterun and not King, but, I think the message will carry weight. Elisif supports the idea and will tell her people the same. The population of Skyrim has been halved by some accounts, though soldiers and the Dawnguard keep finding more people hidden away underground, in ruins and such. Still, so many were taken, in particular women, and Nords. It is good that there are few now, as there is little food. But in the years to come, we will need more people. May Mara bless us all.”

I looked at the jarl, who was watching his children. They were of different ages, ranging from perhaps ten to fifteen. And as I watched them play, I contemplated Balgruuf’s words and what I thought he was going to tell the people of Skyrim.

_Be fruitful, and multiply._


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music: “Colour Me In” by Damien Rice

From the outside, the house looked no different from many in the city. It had two stories and a thatched roof, glass-free shuttered windows, and a lot of weathering. It was certainly a fixer-upper. The land attached to the property appeared to be vast, with an inner fence surrounding a more immediate space and an outer one outlining what looked to be big enough for several horses to run around comfortably. A nice, if overgrown pasture.

“I figure,” said Stenvar, “a few chickens here.” He gestured to the smaller enclosure. “Horses in the back. Maybe a cow. Though I know nothing about carin’ for a cow. Or chickens.” He chuckled.

I eyed the man, curious as to why he was mentioning livestock.

“The windows,” he said, grasping my hand and pulling me closer to the house, “I would have them glassed. Nice thick stuff, sturdy. Wouldn’t want anyone jumpin’ into the place.” He gave the inset shutters a poke and they swung open without any resistance. He examined the window thoroughly. “Maybe even iron bars. Can’t be too careful.”

Hand in hand, he led me to the front door which I unlocked with the key Balgruuf had given me. The inside was dark but for the open front door and window. Streaks of light broke through the side windows, outlining hints of furniture. Neither of us had a torch, and I had no idea where the hearth was, so I formed a large orb of Magelight and sent it up in the air. The orb settled against a flat, relatively low ceiling accented by dark wooden beams. In the center of the ceiling hung a modest chandelier, complete with half-melted candles. Without much thought, I urged the candlewicks to ignite. The room was illuminated by dim, warm light, and the Magelight orb dissipated.

Stenvar chuckled, eyeing the chandelier and then me. “Never ceases to amaze me.”

Looking around, I found the hearth further inside, in the center of the rather large front room. It was bare, though, with only the scattered remnants of burnt wood. Stenvar and I opened the bigger windows to the sides of the house, letting in more light.

Exploring the room further, I noted dead leaves and other debris strewn across the floor. Stools and chairs were stacked haphazardly in a corner. In front of them a small round dining table stood bare, covered only by a thick layer of dust. On the other side of the room stood a tall pantry, its doors closed. I opened them with caution, wondering what critters awaited me inside. But instead of mice and spiders I found several jars filled with something dark. I closed the pantry doors.

“Come on,” said Stenvar. “Let’s look at the other rooms.”

Behind the front room, two parallel hallways led to four parallel, completely empty squarish rooms. At the end of the conjoining hallways was a sort of lounge area, complete with a padded bench and wall-to-wall window. This one was glassed, but two small panels, outlined with dark iron, swung open. The glass was rather old it seemed; it was practically opaque.

“We can replace the glass,” Stenvar said, reading my mind. He then turned toward the staircase and ascended. I followed.

The upper rooms were still partially furnished varyingly with beds and wardrobes and desks. There were three bedrooms spanning the north side and a master bedroom and a small room on the south side. Walking toward the master bedroom’s single, large window, I unlatched the shutters and swung them open. Below, there was the small fenced area alongside the house, and beyond, the rolling hills and distant mountains south of the city, the main road cutting through Whiterun Hold, and various other properties, including the local brewery. The view of the road was a strategic one. From this window one could see a fair distance, both east and west.

My hands clung to the shutter edges, and I closed my eyes against the crisp breeze that caressed my face. The breeze carried with it the cold scent of winter, of pine and smoke. A chill ran through me despite my warm clothing. I opened my eyes, and the frozen air stung my cheeks as tears rolled gently down.

“Plenty of rooms.” Stenvar walked up from behind me to gaze outside. “Plenty of space for your family.”

My family. Would Bird and Marcurio want to live in Whiterun? Live with me? Did I even want to live in this house?

“And,” Stenvar continued, “I was thinkin’.”

I turned around to him, all ears.

“I was thinkin’ about something Yrsarald once told me.”

 _Come again?_ “What Yrsarald once told you? You… spoke to Yrsarald?”

Stenvar, smiling, huffed a laugh. “We wrote, mainly. Only a few times. But we did speak, once. It was just a passing comment. You know, one you never think about until… well, until ya do. He said that you were interested in artifacts, that if things had been different for you, maybe you’d’ve worked in a museum. Run a museum. Something like that.”

I watched my breath billow between us. “Yeah. I… I remember that conversation I had with him.” We had been sitting under Gildergreen. That had been a very good day.

Stenvar reached out his hand. The backs of his fingers grazed mine, gently, slowly, repeating. It wasn’t a caress, but more of a test. Not discouraged, Stenvar threaded his fingers between mine, and they curled together into a knot.

“I told him,” he said, breaking his sentence to lower his gaze to our hands, “that I had a stash of artifacts. I knew where to go to get more. I’d sold many, in the past, but there are always more artifacts to be gotten. The plan had been to use a space in Windhelm, an abandoned house or something. He knew of some items already in the city that’d been collected by a guy, but….” His gaze lifted to meet mine.

 _But plans changed_ , said his eyes. “It would be better,” he continued, “to have such a place here, I think.” Stenvar took one step closer to me, closing in what little space had been left between us. “A museum in the center of the country. Near a major trade city. Near… well, near what may be the capital, soon.”

My mouth twitched into the hint of a smirk. “Balgruuf will be High King. It would take another civil war to stop him.”

“Don’t even joke,” Stenvar said with a chuckle. “So, what do you think?”

“About?”

He smiled. “About livin’ here. Movin’ your family here. Raisin’ the kids here. It’s outside of the city but just a short walk away. One could argue it’s even safer, that way. More crime inside cities, believe it or not.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

We shared a smile. “And the museum? What about it? It’d be like runnin’ a business. Keep the artifacts downstairs, put ‘em on display. Sleep upstairs. Could even start a library.”

“A library?”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Why not? I have a small collection to start ya off.”

“Where do you have all of these things?”

“Oh, places,” was all he said before smirking.

I inhaled deeply and turned back to the window, hand still connected to Stenvar’s. I took in several more deep breaths. “It’s finally over.”

Stenvar’s fingers loosened their grip on mine and my hand was dropped. “What’s over?”

“Everything,” I breathed. “All of the… running around. Torug. Undead. Battles and wars.” In front of the distant brewery, someone was loading a cart with barrels. The two horses in front of the cart hoofed the dirt, impatient.

Hands grasped my upper arms. “I don’t know if it’s _all_ over,” Stenvar said. “There’s always someone fightin’ somewhere.” He fell silent a moment. “Doesn’t mean you have to fight alongside ‘em, though.”

A hand brushed my hair to one side, cascading the ends over a shoulder. Fingertips grazed the nape of my neck. Stenvar moved to stand beside me, one arm still draped across my upper back.

“There is still Alduin,” I admitted. “Somewhere.”

Stenvar grunted. “And you’ll be ready, when he comes. We’ll be ready. You’re already so much better than a week ago.”

We listened to the distant sounds of the city outskirts for a while before speaking again.

“I can still hear them, feel them,” I said. “The dragons. Whenever I think about Alduin, they stir. Even Paarthurnax is ill at east. They all feel it. They all know he’s still out there. Most want him to destroy me.” I sighed, and rubbed my eyelids. “I’m not sure I know how to relax, anymore. Or if I should. It seems like every time I think I can be normal, that I can relax, something horrible happens. And now I have to carry the thoughts of hundreds of dragons and fight them off, one by one, with just my mind.” I whimpered. “I finally have a moment to relax, I finally have… a life. But I feel like I’ll never be allowed to just… be.”

Stenvar’s arm fell from my back and he moved before me. “Ya work through it,” he said, grasping my upper arms again. “Busy your mind with this house. It’ll need a lot of work. Balgruuf will let you stay in the palace until it’s done. We’ll need to get some help to fix it up. No doubt you’ll find volunteers. If not, I can pay some people. It’ll get done, and then you’ll have a museum to set up. Books and artifacts to organize. Children to raise. You’ll be busy, Deb. And when you’re not, when the day is done and you’re in bed n’ your mind wanders to all that vexes you….”

Frowning, Stenvar lowered his gaze, focusing on my shoulder. He gave it a squeeze. “When you need someone to take your mind off it all—” he looked up “—I’ll be here. If you’ll have me, I’ll be here, at your side, until the day Shor finally invites me to his table.”

I smiled through imminent tears. A typical Nord, Stenvar couldn’t wait to dine with Shor. I recalled Ingjard saying the same as she lay dying before me in the snow. And then the tears were real; uncontrollable sobs brought on by both a release of tension and reemergence of painful memories.

Stenvar was quick to comfort me, a hand reaching to cradle the side of my face. “If it’s too soon,” he said in a low voice, “tell me. Tell me to go back to reinin’ myself in and I will. All I ask is to be in your life, Deb, whatever that means for me. Let me help you. Let me help you start your new life.”

Vision blurred by tears, I gazed into Stenvar’s eyes. His serious grey eyes. I sniffled and smiled, and mirrored his actions by cupping his cheek, his scarred cheek, caressing the pink flesh with my thumb.

“I’d like that,” I breathed, voice unsteady. The man’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that, very much.” I sniffled again. “I love you, Stenvar. I always have. For a long, long time.”

Tears welled in Stenvar’s eyes, overflowing quickly. He leaned forward, touching his forehead to mine.

“I wanted it to be you,” I continued, “the letter writer. I wanted that so badly. But it wasn’t, and… I fell in love with Yrsarald. I loved him, still love him. It hurts. It will always hurt. But my love for him doesn’t change how much I care for you. How much I’ve always cared for you. It’s different – separate. But Yrsa will always be with me, in a way. I will never be… as I was, before. And I will always miss him. If that is something you can accept….”

Stenvar’s hold on me tightened, his calloused hands cupping my face. Eyes fixed on mine, he said, “So miss him. Miss and mourn him, forever. He deserves that, to be remembered with such love. But you and I both know he wouldn’t’ve wanted you to be miserable in your remembrance. Miss him every day, every moment if you must, but continue to live your life.” Stenvar’s hands drifted to hold the back of my neck and a shoulder. “I accept you, Deb. In whatever way I can get you.” His hand swept over my hair. “Dragons and all.”

I laughed through my ongoing tears. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

The kiss felt like a homecoming.

Its intensity quickly overpowered the sensation of his chapped, rough and dry lips. The heat of his tongue made me momentarily forget my worries. I held his face, and he mine, tight and unrelenting. Our arms then wrapped around one another as our lips remained locked. I could taste our tears.

Our embrace was the fulfilment of a desperate realization that the two of us could not escape each other even if we tried. This was happening. Perhaps it had always been fated to happen. I mourned my previous lives and awaited my future all at once.

That’s what Stenvar’s kiss was.

Hope.

We parted, somewhat, mouths free but foreheads together. Stenvar laughed low, eliciting the same emotion from me. In the bare bedroom we breathed each other in, reluctant to part.

“Welcome home, Stenvar Grey-Mane,” I whispered, cracking a smile.

He chuckled. “Welcome home, Deborah—” The man stood straight, eyes widening for a moment. “I… just realized, I don’t know your family name. It can’t be just Red, is it?”

“Heh, no. It just means that in your language. My family name is Voroš.”

“Voh-roh-shhh,” Stenvar enunciated, and then chuckled. His fingers stroked the hair at the back of my neck. “Welcome home, Deborah Voroš.”

We kissed again, softer. I wanted more, but he pulled away from my mouth and kissed my cheek, nose, forehead. “Let’s go tell Marcurio about the house, hmm?” He stepped toward the bedroom door, hand attached to mine.

I stopped in my tracks, pulling Stenvar to a halt. He turned. “Something wrong?”

Looking upon my sellsword friend, I smiled. “No,” I assured him. “I just—thank you, Stenvar. For everything. For… my life.”

He smiled back and planted a peck on my lips. “You didn’t need my help, sweetheart. All this would’ve happened with or without me. The next part of your life would’ve happened without me. I’m just thankful I get to be here to see you live it.”

And there he went, down the stairs and out the front door. The front door of my house. Our house.

Our home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sssooooooo? :)
> 
> 2 more chapters to go...


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music: “Stand By Me” by Bootstraps

I was told that the days following the sun’s return were some of the warmest Whiterun Hold had every experienced for the month of Morning Star. Though without thermometers, I doubted the claim had substance. I thought it more likely that people simply felt warmer in relation to perpetual cloud cover, and pointed to the miraculously blooming Gildergreen as evidence of unseasonable warmth.

It was only somewhat chilly on the windy balcony of Dragonsreach. I didn’t need a cloak, though I did wear a warm, heavy dress. Sky blue, with cream trim. The dress reminded me of a mage’s robe. I hoped to get a new one, someday.

From the palace I gazed up at Snow Throat. The mountain peak was clouded over. Before today, one could just make out the tallest reaches of High Hrothgar. Now the mountain and fortress faded into the clouds.

Paarthurnax wished to investigate the mountain. He and I both sensed something there, something magical. Not being able to go himself saddened him. He missed feeling the wind against his wings.

I closed my eyes, and I spread my arms. The cold bit the sensitive flesh under my fingernails.

_Deb?_

The warm sun and cold wind battled each other like me and the dragons, Shouting fire and ice. There were less, now. Still too many. The talkative ones were strong.

 _Deb_.

Paarthurnax, always there, always here, always helping. Always reminding that the benevolent souls within had to be destroyed along with the others. Even Paarthurnax would have to go, one day. I could not deny him that. I would not.

 _Dehhborahhh_.

The long sleeves of my sky-blue dress fluttered and flapped. I closed my spread fingers, catching the wind, soaring with Paarthurnax.

Something pressed on my shoulder. A human was behind me.

The world looked bluer when I opened my eyes. I turned around to find an older Nord with a grey beard and a shaved head. His eyes were grey, too, with a hint of green. His eyes made me smile.

“Stenvar,” I said, recognizing the man.

“Where’d you go this time?” he asked as he felt the length of my arms, once, twice, again. Did he think I was cold?

“Paarthurnax and I think there is a dragon on the mountain.”

Stenvar squinted up at Snow Throat and shielded his eyes from the sun’s light. “You can sense that all the way from here?”

I took a moment to confer. “Maybe,” was the consensus.

The man chuckled and pressed his lips to mine. “How is everything up here today, hm?” His rough palm swept over my forehead.

My eyes focused on an excess trailing thread that had spilled out from behind Stenvar’s shirt and now joined the soft grey curls of his chest hair, contrasting the design of his tattoo. It nagged at me. I wanted to trim the thread.

“Deb?”

“Stenvar?”

His mouth made a crackling sound when he smiled. “Having another in-between day, I see.”

“They get bored, sometimes.”

“Headaches?”

I shook my head.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

I nodded.

“Good. Are ya up for a walk?” He offered his hand, and I took it.

We walked a brisk pace back into the palace and then wove our way through the halls to the foyer and out the massive doors. They must have been three or four times my height. Tall enough for a dragon.

“Why so fast?” I asked as we did that thing human feet do when walking very quickly down steps. It felt like flying.

“I don’t want you to miss it.”

“Is today the Sun Festival?”

“No, that’s in two days.”

We cleared the series of palace steps and were greeted by Talos, protective as ever, facing the blooming Gildergreen.

“I can see him,” Stenvar said.

“What? Who?” A crowd of people milled about the courtyard, most of them regarding the big pink tree.

At the edge of the crowd was Marcurio wearing his cleaned mage’s robe. Periodically he would stand on his toes, looking into the crowd. The fifth or sixth time he did so, he then took a step back, and immediately sprinted forward. I watched as the athletic man leapt into the arms of a tall, skinny blond man.

“Bird,” I whispered with a smile.

It took me a moment to realize what his arrival meant.

“Bird!” I hollered the man’s name and ran to him, leaping over the gulley that flowed around the courtyard.

Marcurio and Bird were deep in a passionate kiss when I saw those who stood behind them. Morgana and Ash and two children, one blonde, one ginger.

And then I saw nothing, tears welling in my eyes and blurring everything. I ran up to Ash and took him, and Flavia with him, into my arms. I reached out to the side and motioned for Morgana, holding Virald, to join in on the embrace.

“My family,” I whispered. “My family, my family, my family.”

“Hello, Deborah,” said Ash. I backed away to gaze upon my adult adopted son who just spoke Norren. He had trimmed his beard into a neat goatee. “Alive,” he said. “Happy.”

I smiled through my tears and pulled Ash forward to kiss his cheek.

Ash turned to look at Morgana, who smiled broadly at him. Virald was awake and alert in her arms, wide-eyed with the excitement. He appeared bewildered and I did not blame him one bit.

“Here you are,” Morgana said as she handed off my son to me.

Amazingly, Virald didn’t cry. He just stared at me with big velvet eyes. I pressed my lips to the boy’s forehead and kept them there, smelling his skin and the tuft of orange hair that peeked out from under his swaddling.

“I am here now,” I breathed to him. “You have me a little while longer.”

Virald squealed happily and tugged at my hair, entranced.

I looked up to see Stenvar, keeping his distance from the family reunion. I didn’t want him to be distant.

Reading my mind, or perhaps my body language, Stenvar approached and put his arm around my shoulders. “Is this him?” he asked. Virald shoved his little fist into his own mouth, or at least tried to. Stenvar chuckled. “Nice to meet you, too.”

A short while later, Marcurio finally let go of his husband, and Bird greeted Stenvar. While they hugged, Bird whispered something to him, bringing tears to the sellsword’s eyes.

Openly crying, Stenvar wiped his face, turned to me and said, “They’re at the stables. Honey’s at the stables.” He was beaming. “And her colt, too.” He laughed. “Flavia named him Apple.”

. . . . . .

Work on the house moved rather swiftly. Many people volunteered their help, though Balgruuf and Stenvar made sure they were compensated in some manner. We didn’t worry about the lower rooms as much as the upper ones. We needed beds and other essentials first. The front room and its hearth were cleaned so that we would have a place to cook. Eventually Stenvar thought we might turn the front room into the main part of the museum. Baby steps, I told him. And then I had to explain to him what I meant by the phrase.

Despite my protests as it was not immediately necessary, Stenvar bought a desk. We put it in the front room for now. He also bought a book that we immediately began to use as a ledger, and found a current calendar booklet that someone had drawn up for the new year. The shopkeeper had informed Stenvar that today was the twelfth of Sun’s Dawn.

The twelfth. If memory served, tomorrow Flavia would turn two years old.

“Sun’s Dawn,” Stenvar murmured. “The Lover.”

“What lover?” I asked.

“The star sign,” he said with a smile. “Those born in Sun’s Dawn take after The Lover. She’ll be tall and graceful, that one.”

“Anyone who knows her father could say she would be tall and graceful.”

He laughed. “Alright. And what about Virald? When was he born?”

“Midyear. Twelfth.”

“Ha, of course. The Steed. That’s my sign, too. Watch that one,” he said gesturing to Virald, “he’ll be travelin’ the world as soon as he can walk, and think he’s a grown man by the time he can talk in full sentences.”

“Are you saying you were like that?”

“Nah. I stayed a child for as long as they let me.”

Stenvar smiled and kissed my forehead. He then moved behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and gazed down upon Virald along with me.

“Just put the kids in one room,” said Bird from down the hall. “We can worry about separate rooms when they’re older.”

“Alright. What about Ash and Morgana?” said Marcurio. “There are only four rooms upstairs and Stenvar wants to use the rooms downstairs for something else.”

Bird chuckled.

“What?” Marcurio asked as they entered the front room. “I suppose Morgana could sleep in the children’s room. At least until Virald’s weaned. Then she’ll want her life back.”

Bird giggled, face turning pink.

“What? Bird, what?”

Bird cupped his husband’s shoulders, bowed his head a moment, and then gazed into Marcurio’s eyes. “I know that I’ve been a bit of a distraction to you lately, but I’m shocked and frankly worried that you, as perceptive as you are, have not noticed.”

Marcurio’s face scrunched. “Noticed what, Bird? Just tell me.”

Smirking, Bird turned Marcurio’s face to the side, in the direction I was looking. In the corner of the front room were Ash and Morgana, standing close, all smiles, twirling fingers in each other’s hair.

. . . . . .

In the new bed in our newly furbished bedroom, Stenvar and I lay in each other arms, facing the big open window.

We talked a lot that night. Stenvar told me all about Selina, and how despite enjoying one another, after a while they parted, remaining friends. He freely admitted that one of the reasons they would not have lasted was because of his love for me. Another reason was that she always smelled a bit of wet dog. But mostly, they simply wanted to live different lives.

And then I told Stenvar about Frea, that it had all ended too soon for me to know if I had loved her, but that I did miss her. He expressed surprise at my attraction to women; I said it couldn’t be helped – she was magnificent.

The stars shined bright after the sun set on Sun’s Dawn, and the nearly full moons were high. The middle of the night.

Spring was here, and a fire within me was kindling.

The first time Stenvar and I made love – the first time in four years – he was hesitant, worried how the dragons would react. Our measured caresses carried us into the dawn.

Bathed in the sun’s warm glow, Stenvar prayed to Dibella, invoking the goddess on the first day of First Seed. He asked that she bless our union, this day and all the days following. As he prayed, magic began to swirl around him. Golden, and blooming pink flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to go...


	42. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Music: “Blood Lust” by Lauren Shera

Books, bones, swords, armor, jewelry, and various little knickknacks populated the four lower rooms of our house. Bookshelves were being installed in one of the rooms, intended to be a small library of rare or otherwise interesting books and scrolls. Display cases, elevated to about waist height and fitted with a locking hinged glass lid, were tucked into the corner of the front room, ready to be used. Several large chests full of precious metals and gems and bobbles were stacked in the one locking room, guarded by tall and eerie mannequins that were ready to be dressed in something fascinating. And finally, in another room, were five crates filled with absolutely random anythings received from an anonymous donor – skulls of various species including orc, pottery, statuettes, toys, humanoid finger bones, clothes, alchemical ingredients, books books books, several non-humanoid longbones, and weirdest of all, items that were decidedly from Earth.

A cowboy hat, stained and beaten with a faded label inside the cap. A coin with a square hole in the middle and barely legible Chinese characters. A palm-sized figurine of an African elephant made of a sort of rubber-plastic material; one of the tusks had broken off. A warped purple Tupperware lid. A filthy yellow T-shirt with a smiley face printed on the front, child sized.

A Bicycle brand playing card, Two of Clubs.

 _Ye didn’t ‘appen to find the Two of Clubs, though?_ I heard the tall British man ask. He was dead now, as were the other two lads who had fallen along with Asher Costin into a portal from England, 1996.

I yanked the Two of Clubs from the crate and slid it into my dress’s pocket. Ash might want it. Or he might want it destroyed. I would leave that for him to decide.

Ash, along with the children, was learning Norren from Morgana in the nursery. The young woman held up a lock of her hair and repeated various words. Red. Long. Curly. Flavia might have said something resembling the words, but Ash definitely did. Whether he understood them was another issue. Virald was simply enjoying the activity and his nurse’s comforting voice.

I smiled and turned to walk down the hall. Now was not the time to dredge up the past.

Making my way back downstairs, I made for the reception area, the standing desk Stenvar had built by the front door. It looked like something found in any shop or tavern, a simple wood counter. What it was meant to do, in Stenvar’s mind, was act as a barrier should any unfortunate soul decide to attack me.

Next to this standing desk, forming an L against the wall, was a regular sitting desk, where one could easily watch the museum. Under the top of the standing desk, and in easy reach from the sitting desk, was a lightweight steel sword that Stenvar insisted I keep there.

Right now, Stenvar was heading west, with Krikit tagging along, to retrieve yet another stash he had hidden underground. A veritable treasure. He called it fate that he had hoarded so many artifacts and other such items over the course of his life. I didn’t disagree. I did however voice my concerns that he was basically dungeon diving and robbing people of their grave goods. He called it survival, since he had sold a lot of the items, and that since the people were ancient Nords, it was not robbery. I hadn’t felt like arguing about it.

As I made to grab my journal – the one that Bird and Marcurio kept from when Virald was born – a wave of nausea came over me. I steadied myself on the standing desk and waited for the sensation to pass. It didn’t. In another, stronger wave, I wretched, and knew my breakfast was about to make a reemergence. I dropped the journal and ran for the front door, making it outside far enough to vomit off to the side, next to the newly arranged chicken coop.

 _Sorry, chickens_.

In an instant, the nausea went away. Perhaps I had eaten a contaminated egg. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and headed back inside. The journal had fallen open to a blank page, now creased. Feeling somewhat drained suddenly, I sat down with the journal at the desk and found the inkpot and quill, deciding not to make the journey up to my bedroom where I usually sat to write, practicing my Norren which came far easier now.

I flipped to the last entry I had made, nearly two months ago.

_7 First Seed, 4E 205_

_Today was a special day, called the First Planting. The fertility festival happens every year this day, but this year everyone was particularly observant. The harvest has to be good this year or else the people of Skyrim might starve as we nearly did last winter when the sun was veiled._

_At the ceremony, attendees watched the city’s surviving children plant three seeds each in a special garden near the palace. The seeds were blessed by the priestess of Kynareth and watered with water that flowed around Gildergreen. The priestess called this Planting a new beginning for the people of Skyrim and told us to forgive our enemies, shed our bad habits, and donate to the temple so that the ill and injured may be cured. After the ceremony I decided to donate my time instead, offering my proficiency in healing magic where needed. Marcurio did the same._

_After that, after we came home, Stenvar and I were almost giddy. We had sex again. Excited sex. We agreed it would be a waste not to, on a day of fertility – just in case. He had been so delicate with me the first time. Almost scared. But the dragons never took over as a result of me orgasming. They haven’t taken over at all again. They know I’m the dominant one, now._

I smiled at the entry and began a new one, scrawling today’s date.

_27 Rain’s Hand, 4E 205_

_Tomorrow I will be 33 years old. I don’t know what I will do for the day. I told Stenvar I didn’t want anything fancy, no party or anything. The best day would be as it usually was, spent with my family. Perhaps Altanir and his sons, and maybe Neriwen will stop by._

I stopped writing, my mind traveling to Solstheim and wondering how Brelyna and Jenassa were doing. I wished they had stayed in Whiterun, but Brelyna said she was not yet finished with her studies amongst the other Telvanni.

_I wish that_

More nausea. I lifted the quill from the paper, and froze. I stared at the quill tip. The nausea wave struck again with urgency. I inhaled, and holding my breath I again rushed outside, this time vomiting away from the chicken coop. My head felt heavy and I was even drowsier than before. I almost felt hungover.

I went upstairs to wash out my mouth, and found myself staring into the small, blotchy mirror on my bedroom wall. The person staring back at me looked awful. Face flushed of color. Tired.

Thinking I was simply ill, I cast healing magic over my entire body. I felt its warmth, but the fatigue and malaise did not fade. Something was wrong.

I trotted back downstairs and left the house, having a mind to visit the apothecary in town. The chickens clucked, and I stopped mid-stride.

“Two months,” I voiced under my breath. “But I haven’t….”

I turned back around, reentered the house, and trotted back upstairs to my bedroom. I opened the drawer where I kept menstrual paraphernalia and tried to recall if I had used any of them over the last seven weeks.

“Of course I have,” I said to myself. _Haven’t I?_

I had been busy. Had I been _that_ busy? Stenvar wasn’t here to confirm. He would have remembered.

My hands had instinctively fallen to my lower abdomen. Fingers splayed, they appeared to be protecting it.

Staring down at myself, my mind began to race. Seven weeks. How many times had Stenvar and I had sex? It didn’t matter. He was infertile. It couldn’t be that. There was no one else. And unless dragon soul possession could impregnate a Dragonborn….

I laughed at the concept.

And then I had to sit down. The sensation of being drained was overwhelming. We still only had one chair in our bedroom, but that was nearer than the bed, so in the chair I sat. It was not particularly comfortable, just a simple wooden chair, but I sighed with the relief that came with sitting and felt as though I could fall asleep then and there.

“This is insane,” I said. “You can’t be pregnant. It’s not possible. You’ve just got food poisoning. It’s just bad eggs.”

I felt Paarthurnax’s soul baring down on me like a parent trying to get a child to confess to something simply by looking at them.

“But it can’t be that,” I continued.

Paarthurnax continued to nag me with his emotion.

Looking down at my hands still pressed to my abdomen, I cast the spell that detects life. As expected, I glowed a bright purple, and a small distance away were the purple figures of Ash, Morgana, and the children, glowing through the walls.

I closed my eyes, feeling their presence with my dragon sense. They were happy. And somewhere below us was a happy mouse. _Note to self, find the mouse_. There was also something else in the house. Something small, but not a mouse, nor an insect.

I opened my eyes and stared at my abdomen. Between my fingertips, barely noticeable, was a condensed spot of purple, no bigger than a berry. The magic effect faded. I cast the spell again. I repeated the process five times, each time staring at myself in disbelief.

“ _Laas yah nir_.” My heart raced.

The front door slammed open and Stenvar called my name. Krikit barked. I heard Stenvar run up the stairs, his armor clanking. Into the bedroom he walked, huffing.

“Deb,” he voiced, catching his breath. “Giants. West.” He paused to grab a cup of water and drink it all down. “Two of ‘em. They’ve been killin’ the farmer’s livestock and now they’ve taken one of their children. I can’t take em’ myself but I know you can. Maybe you and Marc, too. Is he here?”

I stared up at Stenvar, frozen in thought, memories flooding back from my time at the College of Winterhold. Memories of being sent away. Sent away because I was pregnant. Magic was not safe, to cast, to be around.

“Deb?” he asked, kneeling down in front of me. “Are you with me?” He grasped my hand, my hand that remained glued to my abdomen. “They need you.”

My mouth trembled, opening and closing several times as it tried to form words. Eventually, I breathed a laugh and said, “I don’t think I should.”

Stenvar gazed up at me, puzzled, as my laughter shifted from nervous to joyful.

"Why...?" His question trailed off as his eyes followed the line of my arms down to my stomach. After a moment, his grip on my hand tightened and he looked up at me again, eyes wide with realization.

Stenvar huffed a laugh and breathed, "Sweet Mara." 

 

− **END PART THREE** −


	43. Appendix - Glossary

Please go to [scrptrx.tumblr.com/norren](http://scrptrx.tumblr.com/norren) to view the complete list of Norren words.


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